


Ramble On

by Ellerigby13



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creeper Matt, Drunk Karen makes an appearance or two, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hints of Klaire, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Overprotective Frank, Overprotective Matt, Post-Season/Series 02, Slow Burn, Slurs, former matt/karen, lots of feelings, mentions of rape/non-con, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellerigby13/pseuds/Ellerigby13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months since she spat the venomous words at him she never thought she'd be able to take back.</p><p>Now he returns to her, fuming and in grave danger, on a manhunt for the mobster who unearthed and desecrated his family's remains.</p><p>It's absolutely the wrong time to go falling in love with Frank Castle, but of course Karen does it anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Necessities

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! This is a new fic I've been working on, since my boyfriend got me hooked on The Punisher comics and Daredevil on Netflix. Hope it's alright; please leave me feedback (good or "constructive") in the comments. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Entire work title credited to "Ramble On" by Led Zeppelin.  
> Chapter one title credited to "Dark Necessities" by Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Karen was beginning to think that those _Oh my God, is this really happening?_ moments were setting the tone for her life in general.

It had been months since she had last seen Frank Castle, months since she spat her venom in his face while he just stood there and took it, something she had never seen him do.

And now, when she just thought that she could come home from a long day kissing ass with the cops for a story, here he is lying on her couch with a bag of frozen vegetables to his forehead. Looking just as ragged and ripped up as she has ever seen him, with the same clouded, thoughtful expression on his face. When she steps through the door, he makes slow eye contact, his gaze unapologetic and unwavering. She's shaking suddenly, her hand moving in tremors into her purse to grasp her gun. In typical Frank Castle fashion, he doesn't seem fazed whatsoever.

“I thought we'd been through this.”

“Frank, I don't know what the fuck you think you're—”

“If you were gonna shoot me, you woulda done it by now.” He adjusts on the couch, sitting up straighter and letting the bag drop into his lap. She has seen him look worse, but his face still looks like it's been through a meat grinder. One eye is nearly swollen shut, and a gash digs deep into his left cheek. He looks like hell. As always.

“Why are you here?” She tries to make her voice stern, commanding. It barely leaves her throat, choked. “Why did you come back?”

“Come on, Karen, there's shitbags left and right around here, it was only a matter of time before some of 'em banded up again lookin' for blood.” Her face doesn't shift, as he would have hoped. He relents, rises to his feet, sucking in and then blowing out a sigh. “Alright, listen, you've spent a pretty good amount of time with the NYPD, huh? You've heard about the Italians, huh?” She frowns, not realizing that her grip has begun to loosen on the .380. “I took some of the scumbags out a little while back, and now...” He sucks on his lip, a grim smile rising to his face. “I don't give too much of a shit about the mafia, you know? They're all scum, and they'd get what's comin' to 'em anyway, but...Cavella made it personal.”

“Cavella.”

“Little shit.” He sucks in a long breath, shaking his head. “Ain't a story for right now, though.”

“Frank, I didn't mean...well, I sort of did mean why you came back to Hell's Kitchen, but why are you in my apartment? Like...right now?”

It takes him a moment to consider it, and he chews his lip in that ridiculous way of his. _I guess it is a story for right now,_ she thinks somewhat triumphantly, knowing that she's going to get the answers she wants one way or another.

“You know how you were writing some shit about me? Or how you were trying to?” She grunts, raising an eyebrow. “Listen, Karen, Cavella is a little shit but he's got connections and he's got information. He...” He trails off a moment, then pulls a small disc out of his jacket. “...I found this on the doorstep of my...I don't know, safehouse? Where I was stayin'.” She strides to the crappy little DVD player under her TV, slides the disc in, and presses play.

“Fuck you, Castle!” The video quality is scratchy, and yesterday's date plays in the bottom right corner of the screen. Karen feels her stomach drop and her hand smack over her mouth when the visual clears up slightly: a thin stream of urine rains down on a small pile of bones, freshly dug up in front of a headstone that reads, “MARIA ELIZABETH CASTLE” along with her birthday and date of death. The camera zooms out, revealing a second stream of piss that moves across Lisa's and Frank Jr.'s bones as well. The video cuts to a thin young man, one of the pissers. “We're fucking coming for you, Castle.”

Her finger slams the eject button. Frank reaches over and grabs the DVD, returning it to his coat.

“Frank, I—”

“They looked into me. Just like you looked into me. How long before they get to look into you?”

Her stomach tenses, and she allows a tear to escape. Then she's gasping, and water pours out of her eyes like rain. He seems to hesitate, but then Frank's hands are on her shoulders, and then she's pressed against his chest, sobbing with her fingernails digging into his ratty t-shirt. She's not entirely sure why she's crying like this—because of the disgusting, evil video? Because Frank sounds like he's come here to protect her? Or because, just when she thought she'd left gunfire and hell behind, New York dragged her back into its bloody clutches with a vengeance?

“Hey, hey,” she hears him, almost whispering, his voice much softer than she's ever heard it before, “come on, now. Slow down.” She pushes out of his arms, shocked to have found herself there in the first place, and begins to wipe the tears from her face with the heel of her hand.

“I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry, Frank, I'm sorry that they did that.”

“Ain't gonna change things. He's a dead man walking.”

“I wouldn't—I don't blame you for going after him.” She lets out something like a laugh, though it burns on the way up. “Matter of fact, I hope you give him something to scream about.”

He shifts his weight, wearing as grim a smile as she's ever seen him wear. “I, uh, appreciate your approval on the matter. But I guess what I really came to ask was if I could...well, if I could stay here for a bit. Keep an eye on you and keep Cavella off my tail a little longer.” Her eyebrows float upward. “I know it's a lot to ask. And I know it's...dangerous. And I'm sorry.”

“If you were afraid of putting me in danger we never would've met, Frank.” He pretends that the words don't cut into him deeper than any knife he's ever encountered.

“I told you, you were always safe.” He says it through gritted teeth, knowing that he should have been there when she got taken by the ninjas, he should have made sure she was safe from everyone else, not just him. He should have been there for her. He doesn't blame her silence, doesn't expect her acceptance of his proposition. But in her silence she trods sullenly to the hall closet, pulls out a blanket and a pillow, both of which are thrown carelessly onto her sofa.

“First aid kit is in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Just letting you know, 'cause I feel like you'll probably need it if you're going to be...you know, doing what you do.”

She goes into the bathroom to clean up, taking off her makeup and brushing her teeth. And Frank watches her out of the corner of his eye while he sets up his makeshift bed.

Her hair falls over her shoulder in long, tangled strands at the end of the day, flourescent lightbulbs making it shine among the dust mites floating about her apartment. He smiles fondly, knowing that one day, she might've clung to her father's leg the way that Lisa used to cling to his. And this is unusual for him, wanting to get into her past, wanting to know a Karen before she was the woman standing before him, tough and fragile and so broken but so strong.

But he knows that he can't—can't or shouldn't do anything about it. This arrangement is temporary. The Punisher cannot afford friendship.

“Karen,” he calls gruffly, in spite of it all. She turns around, looking annoyed with the toothbrush still in her mouth and the white foam of the paste tracing its corners. “Thank you.”


	2. The Pretender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen refuses to be a damsel in distress, even when she's being followed by someone all too familiar. And irritating.
> 
> Frank follows his increasingly-important leads, and tries not to follow his gut.
> 
> EXPLICIT VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER.  
> Title comes from "The Pretender" by the Foo Fighters.

It's been a long day of walking. Karen Page is wishing that she'd gone with the flats instead of these new chunky-heeled things that she'd bought recently, but a trip to the police station turned into a trip to the nearest Chipotle, which turned into a trip down a long alley to avoid the sketchy patrons of said Chipotle. Which, after a series of sweeping left and right turns, turned quickly into getting lost with a 4% battery on her phone. So now she wanders up 59th Street searching for a familiar landmark with her hand inside her purse gripping her gun ever tighter, the sky darkening by the minute.

She doesn't admit being scared to herself; she's seen the demons of Hell's Kitchen and knows that there's something that ought to be much more frightening back at her apartment when she gets back—or perhaps he won't be there. Perhaps he'll be out doing what he does best, guns ablaze and fire in his heart.

But the careful thoughts of Frank, though they distract her from the dankness of the city at night, are poisonous, or at least they should be. Karen refuses to believe that they are warm in her chest, knows that thinking of Frank in any way that...well, any way that isn't strictly unprofessional, is completely and totally off-limits. He's an acquaintance, she reminds herself, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that those approaching footsteps are benign. When she turns, though, the street is bare.

“Shit,” she breathes, fingers squeezing at the .380. She walks faster, but the swoops of wind somewhere behind her cause her chest to tighten. “Shit, shit, shit...”

“Karen.”

No. No, no, no.

He grabs her arm and darts them into an alley, and she can't look at him, not in that ridiculous costume she once had so admired.

“Karen, listen to me.”

“Were you really following me?” The rage bubbles in her stomach, and though she's still holding the gun tighter than ever, she's got a little more than half a mind to pistol whip him with it. He's silent. “Matt, I can take care of myself. I don't need—no, fuck that—I don't _want_ you to babysit me.”

“Your heart rate is up.”

“Because you scared the crap out of me!”

“And you're stalking off into the city with a dead phone and no GPS. Your apartment is half a mile behind you.” She bites her lip furiously, finally letting go of the gun and folding her arms across her chest.

“Okay. I may be horrible with directions, but I was just...” _Avoiding the douchebags who tried to follow me from a Chipotle? Come on, Karen, that just screams damsel in distress._ “Look, Matt, if anything really serious was going to happen, it would have. I am capable of protecting myself.”

“Really?” The corner of his mouth twitches briefly, and he turns just slightly as if to listen to something about a hundred and twenty degrees away. “Why is Frank Castle in your apartment?”

“Are you—you can hear him from here?” That heat in her stomach pools up into her throat, and she doesn't realize how tight she's been clenching her fists until now. “Jesus Christ, Matt, no, you know what? Stop following me. You have done...more than enough to protect me or defend me or whatever it is you think you're doing. Frank needs a safehouse, just for a few days, and that is all. Not that it's any of your—of your _damn_ business.” She feels like she's swallowed a golf ball, but his face, what little of it she can see with the mask, doesn't shift or change whatsoever.

“I'm not going to just go away, Karen. And neither is he. You don't have to like it or accept it, but as long as he is in your life I will be watching him. And you.”

_God, Matt, sound more creepy._

“I'm done,” she finally says, brushing past him in the direction he'd pointed out, knocking purposefully into his shoulder as her little vindication, her revenge for all the bullshit he'd put her and Foggy through with the trial, all the bullshit with the dark-haired woman in his apartment. There were things she could forgive—could she really forgive Frank murdering scumbag after scumbag? she wasn't sure—but all the stress and all the pain and all the time she'd wasted on Matt...that was unforgivable.

 

_______________________________________________

 

Frank is aware that she's on edge when she comes back—her body language screams discomfort. She doesn't say anything to him, he doesn't expect her to, but the way she practically throws her purse onto the kitchen table and excuses herself to take a shower tells him more than he ever could have asked for. He's well aware of her involvement with Red, figured it all out a long time ago. Hell, he told her to hold onto him for dear life. But now she's got fire and vinegar written all over her face and he's sure that Red has fucked up big time.

“Karen?” he calls, not a hundred percent sure why he's leaned up against the bathroom door. He's got a rifle in his hand and is so ready to go ahead and do what he does best out into the night and here he is worrying about her. He hasn't worried about anyone in ages.

“I'm fine, Frank, go—go do your thing,” comes the muffled reply, and if he didn't know any better he'd say that through the shower and the door she's been crying. And it's so not Karen, crying at the drop of a hat. He's seen her do it twice now, last week when he'd arrived and shown her the video and now because of that dumbass Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Tough as she is, he supposes everyone has a breaking point.

So he leaves her alone, tidies up after himself in the living room and goes out through the fire escape into the dark to do his work.

He's perched on a rooftop when he sees his first mark. Carmine Gazzera (though they call him Pittsy, for whatever reason) is one of Cavella's closest connections. The idiot is wandering the street, his arm around a leggy brunette with hoop earrings the size of her fist. She's giggling and drunk, and he probably is too, because they're making a hell of a lot of noise out in the middle of the neighborhood. Frank is almost sure that it's too good to be true, but it doesn't matter. He can vaguely hear the sounds of debauchery where they're coming from, a corner bar with blacked out, maybe boarded up, windows. It's not worth blindly shooting into the bar (though he’s sure that, if they’ve been working with Cavella, there probably aren’t many innocents inside), so instead he focuses on putting a hole in Pittsy's head.

He aims carefully, as usual, guiding the barrel into a familiar angle. He used to like hockey, would watch it with Maria and the kids, covered Lisa's eyes when the players got into fights. She especially liked watching old Gretzky tapes, the legend himself. She'd tell him, “Daddy, you know what Wayne Gretzky said? 'A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.'” Behind the one batch-two batch chant he murmurs every time he pulls the trigger he remembers her borrowed words, aiming a few inches ahead of where the back of Pittsy's head is.

When the bullet leaves the barrel, crisp in the cold air, it cracks once. Then again when it breaks through his skull, splattering blood and brain matter over the girl's face. She shrieks her violent, bone-rattling shriek, watching the body crumple to the ground. The asphalt darkens with his blood.

“PITTSY!” she's screaming, sobbing in between breaths.

Time to move. He straps the rifle to his back again, pulls his ball cap down lower over his eyes, and slings his coat around his shoulders, then moves to the stairwell of the apartment complex. The stairs come easy, but his brain is moving faster by the moment. She's making too much noise now. Drawing too much attention. He needs to get back, fast.

Karen’s apartment isn't too far, and by the cover of the junkies shooting up in the streets and the hookers propositioning taxi drivers, he's there quick. He takes the fire escape back in, the sliding glass door left unlocked purposefully and he's thankful for her once again.

Her bedroom door is shut, and all the lights in the apartment have been turned off, apart from the thin trail of light streaming beneath the door. He moves swiftly, quietly, tucking the rifle into her hall closet with the rest of his machinery, and some sewing supplies that he's sure she's never touched. He pulls out her sofa, a twin bed whose edge his large feet dangle over comically, and begins to set it. She must have fallen asleep with the light on, since her room is completely silent. When his head hits the pillow, all he can think of is that it smells like her, and before today that didn't mean much more than that it's probably pretty clean, but now he isn't so sure.

Because today he smells her in the pillow and his chest feels warmer, his heart beats faster—maybe just by one or two skips, and maybe it's just because he chose Taco Bell for lunch today—no, it's not because of Taco Bell. But yesterday the pillow was just plain clean, threads and detergent. Now it makes him want to march into her room, wake her up, and tell her that Red doesn't deserve her getting all worked up over it. And he's telling himself not to wonder why he wants to do this.

But she beats him to it.

“Are you awake?”  He shoots up into a sitting position, her voice bringing the intrusive thoughts to a screeching halt. She's standing there in the doorway of her room, no makeup, hair a mess, her pajamas all wrinkled.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s fine.  I’m up.  Are you...alright?”  She draws in a long breath before coming over to sit next to him, squeezing her knees and looking down at the floor between her feet.

“I ran into Matt today.  I just...I’m sorry, I don’t usually like doing this kind of...feelings thing, but it’s just that--it’s just that he brought everything back with him.”  She runs her hand back through her hair.  “Frank, I don’t know if I’ve been fair...to you.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, that’s bullshit.  I _am_ in your apartment.”

“No, Frank, I mean…”  She bites her lip, and her struggle with the words does not go unnoticed.  He’s tensing now, too--he knows when he’s about to have a bomb dropped on him.  “I was a hypocrite.  The last time...the last time we spoke.”  The fear from that night flashes behind her eyes, and it easily returns to Frank as well: dropping Schoonover, the man he’d once pledged some allegiance to, to the floor of the shed and putting a bullet through his skull.  The coldness of that night, the way she was shivering from the cool air and the terror as she watched him drag the colonel through the door and shouted the last threat she could think of.

And what had he done?  Looked her in the eyes and slammed the door.

He lets out something between a snort and a chuckle.  “So you’re saying I’m not the monster everyone thinks I am?”  The dig is almost worth watching her cheeks go dangerously pink.

“You’re not a monster, Frank.  But the truth is…”

“I know.”  He nods at her purse, and more importantly, what’s inside it.  “You said it wasn’t your first rodeo.”  She leans her forehead against her fingertips, looking listlessly into whatever past she’s running from.  “Look, Karen, you’re not a hypocrite.  Whatever it was,” he pauses to allow a sarcastic laugh, “sure as hell can’t be as bad as all I’ve done.”

“You say one shot, one kill, right?” she sniffles, straightening up, and for the first time this conversation, looks him in the eyes.  “It was seven shots.”  She shakes her head, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.  “He just set it there in the middle of the table, and he...he dared me to do it, like we were in grade school or something.  He was about to kill me, Frank, or I wouldn’t have…”  She’s shaking again, but this time the tears stay somewhere he can’t see them, trapped in her lungs and frighteningly silent.

“Karen, you’re not like me.  Alright?  Don’t even start to think that.”  His voice comes out gruffer than he means it to, so he reaches for her hand, letting his palm cover it.  “Look at you.  You’re shakin’.  You ever see me shake when I come back?”

“I guess I’m just a little less accustomed to it than you are.”  She tries to smile through the words, but makes more of a sad, twisted grimace than anything.

“Good.  Nobody should be more used to it than me.”  She pauses, and he pretends it doesn’t sting just a tiny bit when she slips her hand out from under his.

“I’m gonna go to bed, Frank.  Thank you for...everything.”

  
He falls asleep that night with a rather cloudy head and a rather guilty ache below his navel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think :)
> 
> (I don't know a whole lot about the geography of Hell's Kitchen, so please forgive any discrepancies)


	3. Do I Wanna Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ellison is sassy, Karen interviews (and might have a tiny crush on) a key lead in a new Metro General story, and Frank smells the pillows.  
> Chapter title comes from "Do I Wanna Know?" by the Arctic Monkeys

Karen, however, falls asleep that night actively cursing herself. Feeling the rough callouses against the back of her hand awakened those proverbial butterflies in her stomach, which, this time, she couldn’t deny.

_You were in their house. You stepped over his dead children’s toys. Smelled his dead wife’s perfume. You are an actual piece of shit._

She has never been more confused than she is tonight. Screw killing Wesley or discovering Matt’s dirty little secret. And yes, she hates herself enough for letting those intrusive thoughts become willing, conscious thoughts, but...she doesn’t want them to stop. She wants to feel those rough callouses again, maybe this time against the palm of her hand. God, she knows she sounds like a stupid schoolgirl, but relationships had usually been so ordinary. Of course, apart from the last guy she dated being a secret vigilante.

But Frank. It had been a rocky start, of course. How couldn’t it? They met as a law assistant and a mass murderer who was about to be convicted as such. Now, though, as strange and twisted as things should be, they feel natural. Organic.

And it’s not even the questionable moral code that mixes her up. It’s not the murder, or the vigilantism, or even the coming home at three in the morning soaked in blood that may or not be his. It’s his dead family that confuses her, the once-soulmate that she feels she is intruding upon, the children whose baseball games and Girl Scout meetings he should have been going to. It takes her a while, but the reality of it reaches her just as the sun starts to touch the horizon.

She feels as if she’s stealing the Frank that could have been, before it all went to shit.

It’s the bloodstained Frank that she grudgingly admits to wanting, the Frank with bullets and the Frank that smells like day-old coffee and dime store deodorant and gunpowder and _God, what’s wrong with her for loving that smell?_

Her eyes are beginning to ache from staring at the ceiling when her alarm goes off, and she hops anxiously out of her bed and into one of her trademark pencil skirts to get to work. In ten minutes, her hair and teeth are brushed, her makeup is somewhat done, and she’s out the door without a word, on her way to The Bulletin to grind her keyboard for an article that her heart won’t really be in.

“You ever heard of Nicolas Cavella?” Mitch says in her office, arms crossed over his chest in a way that says this is what she’s going to write about. “He’s been in the Italian mafia a while, ever since his uncle Jimmy Cavella got locked up for murdering the family.” He picks up a little clipboard he’s set on her desk, flipping through the pages. “Adopted by dear old Aunt Maureen, who died under suspicious circumstances when Nicky was eighteen...kid’s been dodging bullets for a while now.”

“Mitch, I don’t know if this is the right case for me,” she replies with a yawn, trying to pass off her fatigue and discomfort casually. Ellison gives her a quizzical look, scratching his chin.

“Karen Page, refusing to rise to a challenge?” He walks over to the thermostat in the room, twisting the dial between his fingers.

“Mitch, what are you doing?”

“Well, I’m turning down the temperature, because the day you refuse to rise to a challenge is the day that Hell’s Kitchen freezes over.”

She rolls her eyes, following him to the wall. “Mitch, did you know that Nicky Cavella is connected to Frank Castle?”

He raises his eyebrows, returning his stance to the questioning folded-arm pose that he seems to enjoy so much. “I did not know that, but it doesn’t surprise me one bit that you do. How do you know that, Page?”

“It’s...complicated,” she replies, glaring down at her shoes. “You know that Castle was presumed dead at the docks when the Blacksmith’s freighter blew up but mysteriously turned up again the night I got kidnapped...” She shifts her weight between feet, then finally looks up to meet his gaze. “Seeing as Frank Castle is a convicted mass murderer who somehow managed to break out of a high-security cell block and then survive a massive explosion, I’m not sure I want to get mixed up with anyone that he’s mixed up with.”

The truth was, Frank had made her promise that if anything came up about him, she wouldn’t go poking around business with Cavella. In fact, he’d generalized it to the whole of the Mafia, just in case she crossed paths with someone Cavella was in cahoots with.

“It’s like a fire, Karen,” he’d explained to her, coming in one night with bruises running up and down his face in blue and yellow splotches. “Touch one piece and the whole thing spreads.”

“I thought you idolized Frank Castle.” Ellison raises an eyebrow, studying her as if to break her for clues. “Or is he really the monster that you insisted he wasn’t?”

His words sting, echoing the ones she’d yelled at Frank months prior, outside Schoonover’s shed. There’s no possible way Mitch knows about that, though, so she swallows the spiky something in her throat.

“Maybe, just this once, Mitch, maybe it’s time to play it safe.” Again, he’s taking his time to watch her, to detect any cracks that will lead him under the surface, as any good journalist should do, but she doesn’t yield.

“Okay. I’ll take your word for it. But I do expect something heartwrenching and honest from you on my desk by Thursday.” He knocks half-impatiently, half-amused on her door frame as he exits.

For the next two hours she researches, e-mails, and makes phone calls, until she comes into contact with one Claire Temple, former nurse at the Metro General. Claire quit her job because she was asked to cover up some sort of corruption that the higher-ups had been orchestrating around a shady attack on unregistered patients. There had been about ten or so kids in their twenties, tweakers from the looks of it, who’d been brought in all on the brink of death.

Except, of course, they weren’t tweakers, and except of course they’d all woken up murderous lunatics and then the ninjas arrived (which, before she’d been kidnapped by them, Karen wouldn’t have believed for an instant), and then one of the nurses had sacrificed herself to save Claire, and--

“Well, it’s all a mess, obviously,” Claire had huffed on the phone. “And there are ties in it to a certain...vigilante. But that’s not the story I want to tell.”

“Of course.”

“The point is, in spite of the patients being unregistered, Metro General’s Board of Health’s only concern in the situation was it being covered up. They wanted me to lie about...well, about my friend’s death, but also about something else. For that, I think we may need to meet in person.”

Meeting Claire for coffee at a dingy little diner is nice, because they can converse freely without anyone caring. But it also makes Karen a little more antsy than usual, because it reminds her of another diner she visited, one that ended up splashed in blood and peppered with bullets.

She’s sitting there waiting, her thighs sticking to the leather seat, when the only woman who could be Claire walks through the door. She’s absolutely beautiful, long dark hair and cheekbones that could cut glass. There’s also a fierceness to her eyes that alarms Karen a little--and of course it makes her so much more beautiful.

“Claire,” she says, standing up and offering her hand. “Karen Page.” Claire smirks just slightly.

“Pleased to meet you. I see you have a booth.”

“Yes, um,” she pauses, resuming her seat and waiting for Claire to take her own, “is it alright if I record our conversation? For accuracy purposes.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, so…” She presses the button on the tape recorder, then states the date, time, and location of the meeting. “I’m here with Claire Temple, former chief nurse at Metro General. Claire, how long had you been working at Metro General?”

“Eight years. And I had...never seen anything like that night.”

“How did it start?”

“Well...there were five kids--not kids, uh, young adults? From the looks of them, the youngest maybe 18, the oldest maybe 25. And, at first glance, it seemed maybe they had OD’d or something--you know, horribly pale, dehydrated, body temperatures off the charts. So we started doing blood tests, turns out the kids had had transfusion after transfusion for weeks, probably.”

“I’m assuming that’s horrendously unsafe.”

“Well, it suggests that they were losing blood at a rapid rate, but to have had so many transfusions in such a short period of time, you’d think they were being...I don’t know, drained. Purposefully.”

“Who would need to do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the ninjas who broke in and attacked. Triggered the kids’ waking up.” Karen purses her lips, her eyebrows crinkling into a deep frown.

“The kids woke up? After all that had been done to them?” Claire shifts in her seat, her eyes falling to the table. She opens her mouth to respond, just as the waitress approaches the table again.

“Hi, hon. You about ready to order?”

“Just coffee for now, thanks,” Claire says, and tucks a lone strand of hair behind her ear. She looks back up at Karen, and it’s only then that the latter sees the fear in her eyes. “They woke up, but the kids who’d been kidnapped--I mean, I assume they’d been kidnapped, I don’t imagine anyone would volunteer for that--the kids who’d been kidnapped never woke up. They weren’t the same, they had...changed somehow.” Karen’s frown deepens.

“Changed?”

“One of their fathers had helped to bring them in. Along with the police. But this dad...you knew he loved his son, stayed by his side while he was asleep the whole time. And when the kids woke up, when we found them at least, he’d stabbed his dad to death.” Karen’s eyes widen, and her stomach drops into her toes; seeing family killed by family…

“You just walked in on that?”

“Yeah. Pretty traumatic. Nothing like watching someone get killed in front of you, though.” Claire sighs, sending a half-hearted smile to the waitress when she puts the coffee down in front of her. Her hands almost shake as she pours in a splash of creamer, but they steady when she stirs it in with her spoon. “These kids are standing there, all menacing, and then ninjas break in the building.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “It sounds ridiculous. I know.”

“Would it sound ridiculous if I told you that I was kidnapped by ninjas...actually not too long after this happened?” Claire looks up at her, eyebrows raised, before they both fall into a cynical sort of laughter.

“Fucking Hell’s Kitchen,” Claire says, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Superheroes, vigilantes, ninjas...pretty soon there’ll be turtles named after Renaissance painters jumping out of the sewers to fight crime.”

“I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.” They take a moment to sip their coffee politely before getting back into the nitty gritty.

“The ninjas are the interesting part, Karen. They attacked us, taking the kids with them. One of them killed my friend. And when the cops showed up, the cops killed one of them. But when we took the body down for an autopsy…” Her fingers tap anxiously against the table. “You know, all the stuff we talked about before, yeah, it’s implausible. Ninjas, rapid transfusions, a kid stabbing his dad. But this part...it’s impossible.” She leans across the table, looking Karen earnestly in the eyes. “The dead body we took down for an autopsy, it already had autopsy scars on it. That body had been dead before.”

_______________________________________________

Frank wanders back to the apartment from an evening of his usual hunt for Cavella, which has become more difficult since he took out Pittsy. He’s been getting the odd feeling of being tailed, and though he has a few inklings who it might be, some part of him is bitter, and thus refuses to believe that Red is so protective over Karen, in spite of whatever fight they got into, that he’s now following The Punisher around.

Even with that feeling, though, Frank makes it back to the apartment without a problem, climbing through the window from the fire escape and shaking his boots off outside so that they won’t dirty Karen’s rug. He starts when he sees her sitting almost catatonic at the kitchen table with a mug between her hands, and one in front of the seat opposite her. She glances up at him with dead eyes, then nods down at the cup. He takes the hint, hanging up his coat and rifle before sitting down to join her.

“What’s going on?”

“I just had a weird interview today.” She pushes her hand back through her hair, looking down at the table like it’s done something appalling. “I don’t know, I’m not sure if I’m really ready to talk about it, but I guess I wouldn’t mind the company.” His stomach clenches, and he fights the urge to reach across the table to grab one of the hands that’s clutching her mug.

“Somebody hurt you, ma’am?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just something that’s...you know, has nothing to do with you but it’s still kind of life-changing to hear, you know?” She attempts to smile, but again it does not meet her eyes when she looks up at him. “Am I allowed to ask how your day went?”

“Nothing special,” he says, and brings the coffee to his lips. “Cavella’s playing smart and trying to hide after the shit he pulled.”

“You think he might be planning something?”

“Don’t care. He’s as good as dead, far as I’m concerned.” Something like anger rises to her eyes, but Frank’s just happy that they’ve changed.

“Frank, you can’t not care if he’s planning something. I know you’re fairly--well, you’re really skilled at what you do, but if he’s got a good enough plan and you just go in guns blazing like usual…” She sucks on her lip, and it feels like he’s taken a jumper cable to the gut. “...no offense, but you put plenty of bodies in the gutter daily, Frank. I don’t want to see the day that one of them is yours.”

“I can handle Cavella, Karen. Don’t worry about it.” He tries to say it with such a tone of finality that she’ll believe him, but something in her face right now…

He doesn’t mind so much that she worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading again!
> 
> Comment your feedback if you'd like, and a heads up that next chapter will feature Drunk Karen, so hopefully that comes out well.
> 
> Have a good one!


	4. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reunion, Karen needs to share her feelings, and Frank needs to keep it in his pants.  
> Chapter title comes from "Poison" by Bell Biv DeVoe

Karen wakes up still exhausted, to a small barrage of texts from Foggy:

_Hey Karen!  Drinks tonight?_

_I realize that last text was a little blasé with everything that’s gone on.  Just...wanted to make sure at least you and I are still cool?_

_Ugh okay sorry for blowing you up.  I’m sorry you got kidnapped by ninjas.  I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about Matt’s situation.  Annnnd I’m sorry I haven’t seen or talked to you since Nelson & Murdock split up.  Can we hang out again?  I miss you.  In a cool way, not a geeky lovestruck way.  I’m rambling.  Text me! _

“Jesus, write me a novel, Foggy,” she mutters to her phone, but a smile rises to her lips as she hits the call icon next to his name--it’s been too long since things seemed normal, and Foggy was probably the most normal equation in her crazy life.

The line barely makes it to the second ring before he picks up.

“Hey, Karen...uh...so I was probably really annoying earlier--”

“What time did you wanna get drinks?”

“Eight o’clock?  At--”

“Josie’s,” she finishes for him, the smile on her face splitting into a wide grin.  “Just you and me, though?  Like the good old days?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding shocked that she’s so excited to say yes, that she doesn’t hate him for not telling her about all the things that, in all fairness, he probably should have.  “Hey, thanks for getting back to me, Karen.  I didn’t...didn’t really expect you to.  In case you couldn’t tell from my rapid-fire texting.”  She grins; it’s almost as if those months haven’t passed, as if she’s talking to Foggy the way they did back in Elena’s apartment, or hitting Josie’s while Matt was out doing whatever he was doing.  “Really, though.  Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.  I’ll, uh, see you tonight then.”  She hangs up, and rolls out of bed to make herself some breakfast.  When she opens her bedroom door, though, the kitchen already smells like sweet batter and fruit.  Her eyebrows knot together, but her expression eases just slightly when she sees Frank standing at the stove, spatula in hand.  “Hey, Frank.”

“Oh--morning, ma’am,” he says, and she can almost swear that she sees a hint of red flashing under the bruises scattered across his cheeks.  “I--I’m making breakfast, was gonna clean up after myself…”

“No,” she cuts in, slightly perplexed.  She supposes it shouldn’t be surprising to see him being domestic; he was a father, after all.  “It’s fine.  You’re welcome to use the kitchen whenever you like, actually.  I’m not that great of a cook, so it’s good _someone_ uses it.”  This merits a smile from him, and she takes a step closer to see what he’s making.

“Probably best that word doesn’t get out The Punisher eats pancakes,” he deadpans, eyeballing the griddle like it’s got his last will and testament on it.  She lets out something like a giggle, finally approaching the stove to watch him work.  “Do you, uh, want some?”

“Please,” she says, almost too eagerly, just as her stomach begins to coil with hunger.  She reaches into the fridge for the thankfully-not-expired orange juice and gets to pouring them both a glass.  “So...I know I shouldn’t know a whole lot about your daily schedule, but what time exactly do you usually leave?  Most days I wake up and you’ve probably been gone for hours.”

“Eh.”  He shrugs, flipping the pancake over, and of course it’s a perfect friggin’ circle because of course Frank Castle is the king of pancakes and also murder.  “Usually ‘bout five.  Sometimes earlier, sometimes later.  Just try to get out before sunrise.  Overslept today, though.”  For some reason, she gets the impression he’s lying on that last part.  With a military background and a daily routine of waking up early to go chase bad guys, it’s hardly plausible that Frank would just oversleep.  But she doesn’t press it.

“Well...thank you for breakfast, anyway.  And thank you for hanging out a little last night.  I just needed it, I guess.”  As she’s turning on the coffeemaker, he flops a huge pancake down onto a plate and slides it in front of her seat.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”  She nods, turning to face him.  “You been in contact with Red lately?”

Her cheeks burn just slightly.

“I saw Matt a little while back, yeah.”

“He say anything about me?”

“Well, because he’s a creep sometimes, he’s followed me around and he knows that you’re staying here.  And he’s not very happy about it.”

“Did he, uh, did he say anything about following _me_ around?  I’m not tryin’ to sound paranoid or nothing, but I’ve been feeling like--”

“ _Fuck_ !” she exclaims, slamming her palm down on the counter, a hot fury filling her bones.  “God damn him.  God, I’m sorry, Frank, he…”  She shakes her head, then runs her hands through her hair, resisting the urge to pull a few strands out.  “You know, I tried my best to forget I’d even talked to him, but...yeah, he did mention that...well, if you’re gonna be around that he’s gonna be around.  I didn’t think he would actually...agh, _fuck!_ ”  There’s fire in her eyes, and for some reason, Frank cracks a smile.

“Don’t worry, ma’am, I was just curious.  He ain’t done nothin’, and if he did, I think I’d hold my own.  I was just trying to see if it was him, and not one of Cavella’s or Fisk’s or nothin’.”  Her ears perk up at the second name, but she pours him a cup of coffee to go with their orange juice and pancakes and sits at her spot anyway.

“Wilson Fisk?”  His cheerful expression doesn’t fade--instead, it turns immediately to that stony look she saw so many times when they first met, defenses up a hundred percent.

“Yeah.  Met that asshole in prison.”

She pauses, her throat suddenly very tight and uncomfortable.  “Oh,” is all she can muster, pulling her plate of pancakes towards her.  She doesn’t tell him that he’s the one who set her up for murder, and then when she was acquitted, attempted to have her killed.  She doesn’t say that she was digging into Fisk when his associate cut in.  Her index finger twitches, almost like her body is remembering the way it pulled the trigger over and over and _over_.

Frank sees her eyes glass over, and he’s sitting next to her now, wearing as concerned an expression as she's ever seen him wear.

“Karen,” he mutters, hesitating before gripping her forearm, as if to shake her out of her daze.

“I don't want to talk about it,” she says, acknowledging their unspoken agreement not to press matters that they didn't care to divulge on. “If it came down to it, I'd tell you more about anything but that.”

“Okay,” he relents, releasing her and leaning back in his chair, beginning to cut his pancakes. She follows, slowly focusing down on her plate. “Tell me about Red, then. Why you're so pissed at him.”

Her cheeks burn foolishly, like a schoolgirl caught in the act.  She aims her frustrations at her plate, sawing the stupid breakfast he’s made with her knife into the tiniest pieces she can make without turning them into plain crumbs.

“Matt...tracked me down the other day.  Not as a friend, but in his...you know, his getup.  And, because he’s alarmingly good at what he does, he knew that you were staying with me and he told me that he’d be watching us.  Watching me, and watching you,” she adds unnecessarily, closing her eyes immediately after that last statement, as if Frank would be gone when she opened them again.

“Huh.  So it was Red.”  She opens her eyes to him continuing, nonchalant as could be, on his pancakes, forking one large piece after another into his mouth.  “Got the feeling I was being followed the other day, so I weaved around pretty good before coming here.  Red’s irritating, not a doubt in my mind about that, but at least he’s not lookin’ to hurt you.  Or me.”  His ears almost burn at that last screwup, but he doesn’t allow his expression to change.  “I understand why _you’d_ be upset, though.  Last thing you need is an ex-boyfriend stalking your every move.”  He glances back up at her, eyes filled with honesty.  “Should I kick some sense into that thick skull?  It’d be payback for the last time he gave me a headache.”

She lets herself laugh this time, shaking her head.

“Do what you want about it, I said my piece to him already.  Not like he’d listen, though, the stubborn idiot.”

“Alright.”  He gets up abruptly, and she sees that he’s finished his breakfast, and apparently intends to head out shortly.  He’s got his back to her now, ruthlessly scrubbing his dish in the sink.  “Karen?”  She hums in acknowledgement, spearing a fluffy piece of pancake onto her fork.  “Uh...you think he still loves you?”

_______________________________________________

 

Josie pretends not to be happy that they’ve returned, her prodigal children, but slams down almost-clean shot glasses full of whiskey in front of Karen and Foggy, grunting that they’re on the house.  They flash her their most appreciative smiles and call after her retreating figure, but she rolls her eyes, striding down the bar.

Karen had been afraid that linking up with Foggy again would be, well, awkward to say the least.  In all those months of not talking, in him knowing Matt’s secret and not telling her, in the utter explosion of the office of Nelson & Murdock, she had expected they’d be walking on eggshells after a seemingly-flawless phone exchange.  But Foggy, of course, surprised her pleasantly, pulling her into a hug and apologizing profusely (again) for doing her wrong.  An apology which, of course, she’d waved off and insisted they’d get to it later, after he told her all about life at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz.

“It’s surreal, Karen.  I even feel like a real lawyer sometimes.”  He takes a swig of his beer, then shakes his head.  “Though I’m starting to feel like anywhere I work in Hell’s Kitchen I’m gonna get bombarded by vigilantes.  One of Hogarth’s associates is this Jessica Jones girl, private investigator who keeps getting in trouble.”

“Hmm, what kinda trouble?”

“Well...would you believe me if I said mind control?”  She raises an eyebrow, but remains silent, as to let him continue.  “Her ex-boyfriend, or something.  Guy named Kilgrave, none too big on subtlety, but I guess it was some kind of virus?  He could infect people, tell them to do something, and off they’d go, happy as a clam.”  He sips on his beer, allowing her to take in the information.  “Hogarth doesn’t like to talk about it, but I heard that he made her ex-wife try to kill her.  Jeri’s girlfriend saw it and…”  He trails off with a shrug.  “I guess Hell’s Kitchen’s never been peachy for anybody.”

They sit in silence for a while, letting the too-loud music speak for them while they take ginger sips of what almost tastes like beer, until Karen finally decides to get to one of the issues at hand.

“I saw Matt.  Well, not Matt.  The Devil, I guess.”  Foggy looks up with an odd expression, something between surprise and sympathy.

“How was that?”

“I...Foggy, I’m making decisions that--well, honestly, they could be better, but at the same time, they could be _so_ much worse.  Nothing that I really want to talk about, but...Matt’s been following me.  And he told me he’d be watching me for...a while.”  Foggy groans, burying his face in his hands.  Karen has half a mind to laugh, but decides against it, knowing that he’s already so embarrassed for his friend, he shouldn’t be embarrassed for himself as well.

“I’m so sorry, Karen.  He’s such an idiot.  I mean, I’m an idiot, but he’s...Matt’s a different breed.”  He sucks on his lip, then downs the rest of his beer.  “You know,” he continues, sitting up to look at her, wearing his determined face, “I haven’t been drunk in _way_ too long.”  She grins, leaning over the bar and raising her hand to signal Josie.

“Two Irish car bombs please!”

_______________________________________________

 

It’s one-thirty in the morning and most of the bar has vacated, save a few weathered regulars and, well, the motley pair laughing too loudly with shining eyes and faded trickles of beer running down their arms.  Josie rolls her eyes, knowing that they’ll both likely be broke after the way they’ve been tipping her since the first shot landed, and has grumbled that, fine, she’ll add the following beers to their everlasting tab.

“Thanks, Jos--Josie,” Foggy corrects, attempting a stern voice and straightening in his chair, only to collapse in giggles with Karen, who’s nearly crying with mirth.

“I can’t believe--I can’t believe we’ve been here so long.  I’m _so fucking trashed!_ ”  Karen whispers the last part, as if they’re trying to hide their inebriation.  “God, Foggy...can I tell you something?  But you have to _promise_ you’re not gonna judge me?”

“Okay.  Okay, I promise.”  He sits up straight again, struggling to listen.  She clears her throat before she can go into it.

“I think...I don’t even know if I’ve admitted it to myself, and maybe I’m just saying it out loud because I’m drunk?  I don’t know?  But I... _fuck_ , I’m afraid to say it.  Okay.  God.  Here goes.”  She draws in a deep breath and clutches the bartop for levity.  “I think I have a thing...for Frank.”

Foggy seems to sober almost immediately, his eyes bulging with disbelief.

“You _what_?”

“I said, I think--”

“No, I don’t want to hear it again, sorry, I...what the _fuck,_ Karen?”

“You said you weren’t going to judge me!” she whines, slumping on her stool.  “Look, it’s probably nothing, it’s probably just that I...that he’s so...you know me, I just immediately go to the tragic hero and assume that everything is fine, and...you know what, it’s probably nothing.  I take it back.  I’m sure I don’t _actually_ like Frank.”

“Karen, it’s been _months_ since the trial.  When was the last time since you even saw him?”

“When I got kidnapped,” she lies, looking down so he can’t see the falseness in her eyes.  “Matt was fighting ninjas on the roof, and Frank had been helping, in his...own special way, from another rooftop.  I don’t know, maybe that image was hot?  No, don’t even...I don’t actually like him.  I was just being stupid.”

He plucks the empty pint glass out of her hands, and sets it down, tossing a twenty on the bartop for Josie and stands to help her into her jacket.

“You know, you’ve probably just had too much to drink.  I’ll help you get a cab, okay?”

“Okay.  Foggy?”  He looks up, that same worried expression still on his face.  “Promise we can go back to being normal, though?”  His expression softens, back to friendliness and sympathy.

“Yeah, Karen.  We can go back to being normal.”

He flags down a cab, slinging an arm around her shoulders to ease her into the backseat.

“In spite of the little bomb you dropped on me there, I had a really good time tonight,” he jokes, reaching awkwardly through the window to give her hand a squeeze. “Want to get drinks again next week? I'll bring Marci and you can bring your murder friend.”  He grins, then realizes that he should probably add a “just kidding” to the end, but Karen laughs and shakes her head.

“Just you and me.  Thanks, Foggy.  Text me!”

The ride home is quiet, except for the cabbie humming along to an oldies station and tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.  She has to shake herself awake just before he pulls up to her building, then slides her last bit of cash up the center console.

The long walk to the elevator is wobbly, and the walls of the hallway pulse a little as she's making her way to her door.  She's very aware, though, jiggling her key into the lock and finally wrenching the door open on the third try.

The apartment is dark, except for the light spilling from the bathroom across the floor.  She dumps her purse onto the kitchen table and fights her heels off, her feet pulling her to the light like a tipsy moth.

“Frank?” she half-whispers, rapping her knuckles against the door frame before peeking in.

He's standing in the mirror, shirtless, taking a needle and thread to a thin but evidently deep slice on his left side, a small stream of dried blood leading down to his jeans.  He's not startled to see her, probably having heard her fumbling with her keys.

“Ma'am,” he grunts, looking up briefly and then back down to the wound.

“Ouch,” she drawls, somehow taking his acknowledgement as an invitation, and plops onto the toilet seat cover, crisscrossing her legs. “What's the other guy look like?”  

“Dead.”  He's very focused, which is pretty sexy, she thinks, on top of the ridiculous body he's just _showcasing_ there in front of her.   _Scars for days and this motherfucker’s cut as shit,_ she wants to sigh, but settles for what is hopefully a surreptitiously longing look and a strained exhale through the nose.  “How's your old pal Nelson?”

His voice wakes her from her small stupor, causing her to sit straight and clear her throat.

“He's a fancy old lawyer now, big firm and clients and all that.”  He finishes his work, and neatly rinses the needle with rubbing alcohol, drying it with a paper towel.

“You smell like you had a good time.”

She giggles in response, then notices the stain on his pants, a _perfect_ reason for them to come off.

“Frank!” she gasps, doing her best to sound shocked.  “Your pants.  We gotta run some cold water over the stain.”  She leans back against the toilet, holding her hand out like she expects him to whip them off like a stripper and just pass them over.  He raises an eyebrow.

“Go put on your pajamas.  I'll take care of it.”  Reluctantly, Karen pulls herself off the toilet, stumbling to her bedroom and, with the last of her good judgment, decides against trying to struggle into the sexiest and most complicated nightie she owns.

Meanwhile, Frank tosses his soiled jeans into the bathtub, running cold water over them like she'd said.  His heart is still trying to slow itself from their little encounter; he hadn't missed the way her eyes lingered just a little too long down the ridge of his stomach, past the dark curls that disappeared into his jeans.  She's drunk, he reasons, just drunk and horny and senseless at the moment, if not just tired and staring into an unfortunate space.  Still, there's a stir in his boxer-briefs that forces him to think of his grandmother, the night he got pissed drunk at Mets Stadium and got thrown out, chihuahua puppies, anything to get his mind off the way he could have sworn he saw her top teeth clench just slightly on that bottom lip….

He peeks out the bathroom door to make sure she's in her room before briskly walking to his duffel bag to retrieve an old pair of pajama pants with just obnoxious enough a plaid to mask the offending part of his anatomy.  Just as they're pulled up his hips and he's settling onto the couch, he hears the soft padding of her bare feet across the hardwood toward him.

“Frank?”  He wants to scream, the way her voice comes out all innocent.  “This is stupid, but...can we watch a movie?  I don't...want to be alone.”  She's standing there in the whitest little pair of goddamn shorts and a blue tank top that looks softer than a baby’s ass.

“What do you got?”  He scoots to the far end of the couch, leaving as many inches open as possible, and yet she still sinks down close enough for her arm to brush against his.

“I want to watch _Ratatouille_.”  He snorts, letting a small smile rise to his lips.

“Rat patootie it is.”

It's a fantastic movie, he thinks, remembering when he'd taken Frank Jr. and Lisa to see it in theaters **,** and he'd enjoyed it more than the kids.  But he wishes he could focus on the rat and its shenanigans rather than Karen’s head, which is beginning to snore lightly and loll over onto his shoulder.  And then she's adjusting, reaching over to clutch him like a teddy bear.   _Fucking A,_ he grumbles inwardly. _How can she not know what she's doing?_

Going against the pull that's sitting in his pants and the weak knife wound in his side, he shifts her into his arms, standing abruptly, and carries her to her room, dead asleep, and lays her out on her bed, turning her on her side.  He returns to the kitchen to fill her a glass of water and brings it back to her nightstand with a couple of Tylenol.  But before he goes back to finish the movie, he allows himself a small victory, planting the gentlest of kisses on her forehead.    
And even though she's been passed out for the last twenty-odd minutes, Karen Page smiles in her sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) Please let me know what you think


	5. Help I'm Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Karen fights with everyone.  
> Chapter title comes from "Help I'm Alive" by Metric

 

A week passes before Karen sees Frank again, after her little drunken escapade.  In that time, his sparse possessions begin to disappear from her apartment: first the jeans he’d left in the tub, then the toothbrush by the sink, and the travel mug he uses for his morning coffee.  At first she's utterly disconcerted, though manages to get on with her work, submitting the Metro General article to Mitch two days early.  But as the week goes by, she starts to feel more annoyed than shocked, passive aggressively ironing and folding the pile he leaves on top of his duffel bag and setting it back neatly.  She tries to make the rest of her time feel normal without him around, even texting Claire to meet for a drink on Friday.  And yet, things manage to slip from normality, when a rough pounding on the living room window tears her from a heart-pounding episode of _The Bachelor_.

“Karen,” Matt grunts, standing mightily on the fire escape as if he belongs there.  “Can I come in?”

“No,” she replies shortly, folding her arms over her chest.  “Unless it's an emergency, I'd like you to leave now.”

“Do you even know what you're doing?”  His voice is both indignant and incredulous, like she's personally murdered someone with an ice pick.  “First you go harboring Frank Castle, a goddamn _madman,_ and now you're writing articles about the ninjas in the Yakuza?  Do you _want_ to die?”

“Matt, I want to live an honest life!”  She storms back to her living room, turning up the volume on the TV to drown out the impending argument.  “The Yakuza have practically vanished, no one has heard anything about them in months!  And the story, if you’d bothered to read it, _barely_ talks about them at all.  I'm not stupid; I didn't even _mention_ ninjas.”  

She hadn't. The focal point of the article had been the corruption of the Board of Health, and had gone more extensively into Claire's personal story than the story of the attack, referring only to the ninjas as “masked intruders who demonstrated deadly stealth.”

“You're lucky they've gone into hiding,” Matt growls, his grip tightening on the pole he now carries around everywhere.  “I can't even get a lead on them, and I've been trying since they took you.”

“You mean, since they took Elektra.”  She means it to come out accusingly; she’d seen the way the girl had been in his presence, if just for those few, horrible moments.  Even if they'd been crime-fighting partners, they'd at some point been more than that too.

“Don't talk about her,” he says sharply, but his head hangs with guilt.  “I should have told you.  You're right, I should have been honest.  And I'm sorry.”  She rolls her eyes, getting ready to shut the window on the latest, weakest apology he could have mustered.  “Karen, wait...I wanted to...I wanted to talk to you about Frank.”

“I know.  As long as he was staying here you'd be following him, and me, to the ends of the earth.” 

“No.”  Her head snaps up, and she's leaning half out the window, her blood going cold.  “I haven't been following him, if that's what you're worried about.  I've been...well, mostly I've been with Stick, trying to figure out what The Hand’s next move is, but they're completely off the grid.  I come by here, sometimes,” he admits, talking once more to her feet, “but when he leaves, so do I.” 

“You haven't been following Frank?  At all?”

“No.”  She draws in a deep breath, hating what she's about to say.

“Someone has.  And if it's not you, then... _fuck._ ”  She takes to pacing in front of the window, her hands beginning to shake.  “Matt, I might need you to start.”  He opens his mouth, probably about to respond with something ugly, but she cuts him off.  “Matt, I know that I shouldn't be letting him stay here, and yes, that he's got plenty of very dangerous enemies that I should have taken more seriously, but...I need you to.  Please.  If not to protect him, then to protect me.”

He considers it a long moment, and she knows the gears turning in his head are ones of vindication and conflict, half of him wanting to lecture her and the other half wanting to understand.

“Karen,” he finally sighs, pulling the mask off so she can look at his face, for the first time in months.  “Even if I do follow him, how will I be able to know who exactly _is_ tailing him?  I can't take you with me because, no offense, if I'm following him and somehow trying to figure out whoever else is, I can't afford to slow down.”

“No, you're right….”  She runs a hand through her hair, weighing the options carefully.  “Maybe there's something else I can do.  To be a distraction to the...the spy or whatever it is, or cause a scene to make him come out of hiding.”  A faint idea begins to shape in her mind.  “Or maybe we need help.”

“From?”  He's obviously not sold on the idea, so she opens the window a little wider.  He takes the invitation, and comes to pacing just as she had moments before.  “The only person we _really_ have in common is Foggy.  And, as much as I miss him too, I doubt he would be very excited to see me, or track Frank Castle.”

“Foggy doesn't need to know.  I just need to get a little information from him, and I have a feeling a client of his could be very helpful.”  She smiles, looking down at the mask.  “Daredevil may be too well-known to sneak around someone who can follow Frank Castle undetected. But have you ever heard of Jessica Jones?”

_______________________________________________

She waits up for Frank that night, long after Matt has gone.  He gets in around three, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and strides past the kitchen without so much as a glance at her.  Karen clears her throat, tapping on the table near the mug of coffee she's poured for him.

“Frank.”  Her voice comes out cold and harsh, just as she’d meant it to.  He whips around, rifle still clutched tight in his hand.  “Sit down.”

“Karen, I don't want to--”

“I don't want to pick a fight with you right now.  Yes, I'm...concerned about you.  But this is more important.”  She waits for him to take a swig of his coffee before continuing.  “I saw Matt today.  And he said he's not the one who's been following you.”

Frank seems surprised, but not as worried as she is.

“He isn't, huh?”  He looks down into his cup, watching the steam rolling off the surface.  “Look, Karen, thank you.  For everything.  But...I don’t want to involve you in this.”  She opens her mouth, ready to fire back about how they’re already involved, it’s already too late for her, but he holds his hand up, shaking his head.  “I know.  I know I dragged you into somethin’, and I know I never should’ve, but it’s time to stop.”  He looks up at her defiantly, knuckles whitening on his mug.  “It’s time for me to leave, ma’am.  Before I put you in any more danger.”

Rage bubbles in her stomach before bursting to the top.

“If you think that I’m just going to let you meander into whatever bullshit shitstorm Cavella has planned for you, you have another _goddamn_ thing coming, Castle!”  The only other time she’s really raised her voice at him, out of the same fury that burns through her right now, was so long ago, not sixty seconds before he pulled the trigger on Colonel Schoonover.  She gestures to the apartment around them, the one whose security deposit and first month’s rent had been paid for by the city, for the ravaging of its predecessor.  “I’ve seen it all already.  I had the Blacksmith shooting at me, I had _you_ shooting at me, and if you try to tell me one more time that I was always safe, you can _go fuck yourself!_ ”  She’s shaking, and her eyes are starting to water, and she’s not exactly sure when she stood up or how she didn’t notice the chair clattering to the floor behind her, but none of it matters now.

All that matters is that she gets him on board with this because he is not dying on her watch.  Not carelessly, in a big bloody mess like this is guaranteed to be.

He stands up slowly, hands in the air like he’d done both times she’d pulled her gun on him.  She’s got her hands covering her face for a moment, then they’re running backwards through her hair, pulling it back to show the color flooding her skin, tracks of mascara leaking onto her cheeks.  His hands are moving slowly toward her, grasping her wrists and moving them away from her face, leaving her hair hanging in messy strands around it.

“Frank, I...whatever you have to do, I’m not letting you do it alone.”  She’s now painfully aware of how close they are, his hands loosening their grip on her wrists and his breath gently blowing against the crown of her head, until he fixes his eyes on her.

She sees him then, in that second of silence.  A welt dragging across half his face, black and yellow bruising dancing down his jaw, his nose broken in probably three places, his lips--those _lips_ \--raw and bloody, the thick curly hair slicking down his forehead with sweat.

And his eyes.

His eyes are tired.  Broken.  All the life drained from them, or it should be, but there’s something left in the shadows echoing over and over in those eyes.

His hand wanders up to her face, large and warm when it takes her by the cheek, and only then does she realize that it’s tenderness that he’s looking at her with.

“You can’t,” he rasps, the sound coming from the deepest part of his chest, through his almost motionless lips.  “Karen.  Please.”  Here he is, begging her to flee for her own good.

“I’m not letting you do this alone.”  She gazes up at him with that last shred of defiance, burning with the need to grab him by those shoulders and shake him until he understands.  “It’s not what they would want.”  She wonders in the following quarter second of silence if he'll kiss her or push her away, her pondering to be squashed in his arms as he wraps them so tightly around her she thinks she’ll never see the sun again.  But now she’s pressed to his chest, his face buried in the crook of her neck, and--

And then it’s over, and she’s stumbling out of his grasp, and he’s turning away from her.

“Frank, I know of someone who can track whoever’s following you.”  He freezes, spine straightening until he seems more than a foot taller than her.  “I’ve looked through a lot of the stacks at The Bulletin, she’s fairly unheard of and so she’ll be less traceable than someone like Matt.”  She draws a deep breath, pulling the business card Foggy had given her out of her pocket.  “She’s gifted, too; it’ll be easier for her to follow you and figure out who else is.”

The information moves straight to his nerves--he wants to scream at her to let it be, let him die by Cavella’s hand as long as she will no longer be pulled into it.  Let her live unblemished by him, but that crumbling look on her face tells him that it's already too late for that.

“Who?”

She falters in his acceptance of her help, hesitating just a moment before she offers him the card she's been holding, having memorized the name, number, and address in these last few hours.

“She's a, uh, private investigator.  Good at following tracks and covering her own.  She's an associate of this woman Foggy’s working with now.”  He turns the card over in his hands, running his fingers over the print with a heavy hollowness in his chest.  “She's had her fair share of crazy, from what Foggy told me.  I want to make an appointment.  But...you can't be there.”  He nods solemnly, then glances back up at her, his gaze shielded once more with the defenses she’s so accustomed to seeing.

“You bringing Red?”

“No.  I don't want to involve anyone else unnecessarily.  Or so high-profile.”  He attempts to ignore the subtle dig, but his fingernails clench into his palms, leaving tiny white crescents in his skin.  “You have a burner phone you can call me on when I go meet her?”  He nods again, tightening the muscles of his jaw.  “Good.  You'll want to keep quiet on your end, though.  In case the guy following you can hear.”

“Yeah,” he grunts briefly.  A small ache forms in the pit of Karen's stomach--she had hoped that their reunion would help them to find a more even footing, a better understanding, but it seems that this new revelation has just pushed Frank back into the comfortable shell she is once again accustomed to.

“Frank,” she says, softer by a few degrees.  “Where were you?”

Hearing her voice change brings another pang to his gut.  This calm, this kindness, it's what he's been trying to avoid.  And yet here he is, coming back for more to ruin them both.

He produces another CD from his jacket, this one in a clear plastic case, the word MICRO written in black Sharpie across the disc itself.

“Had a friend in special ops.  Good with computers.  I've been meeting up with him to see if I can't get a lock on Cavella’s meeting places.  We get close, but when I'm about to go in, thugs show up and Cavella gets a hint to take off.  Now I know someone’s tailing me, must be that guy tipping him off. Not really sure why he hasn't put a bullet in my back, though.”  He puts the case back in his pocket, then looks over her another long moment.  “Maybe Micro can help us find this guy.”

The softened look in her eyes gradually fades, a hardness returning to them that he knows he put there.  She nods, looking away from him, pushing the stray bits of hair behind her ears; putting herself back together as if he didn't notice how broken she looked.  

He knows that wasn't the answer she wanted.  He knows she wanted an apology, some heartfelt speech about being the wrong guy, but he won't give it to her.  Not now.

“Yeah.  We’ll get something worked out.  I'll, um, make an appointment with the PI tomorrow.”  She looks at him again, her gaze now steely and determined.  “Are you leaving again?”

The words fall heavily between them on the kitchen floor, leaving a bursting silence that fills the apartment.  They're staring at each other, she with ferocity and fire, and he with gravity and stone, until finally:

  
“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again so much for reading--I know it's short, but there'll be a huge action chapter coming up soon. Let me know what you think :)


	6. AKA Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank and Karen finally meet with their private investigator.  
> And in which their escalating tension comes to fruition.  
> Chapter title comes from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

“You're joking, right?”  The slight brunette woman speaks in a flat tone, knuckles digging into her shabby little desk as she surveys Karen in her shabby little apartment, which is littered with empty bottles of cheap bourbon.  Jessica Jones wears even stonier a face than Karen has seen on Frank, who she knows is biting his tongue on the other side of the phone.  “You want me tailing New York’s most wanted mass murderer.”

“I know it’s…”  Karen trails off, fumbling back into her habit of trying to push back her hair, in the end allowing it to fall into her face once more.

“I try to keep a low profile, Ms. Page.”  Jessica punctuates her statement with a swig of whiskey, her eyes an odd combination of hard and blank.  “If a high-profile convicted felon is running around the streets, going after a powerful member of the Italian Mafia, I need to know that I’m not going to get mixed up in the fallout.”

“We intend to keep you in the shadows, Ms. Jones.  Foggy Nelson has told me about the things you’ve done for Hogarth.  How you’ve managed to stay out of the spotlight through it all.  Frank has a friend, good with tech.  Any surveillance cameras...they can be used to our advantage.”

“What do you get out of this, Page?”  The interjection is sudden, Jessica’s eyes narrowing while she analyzes the taller woman, feeling the sting of the alcohol surge from her throat down to her toes.  “What do _I_ get out of this?  It’s gonna cost you more than my usual service fees, and I don’t know that you have that kind of money.  No offense.”

“Kilgrave.”  Frank’s voice comes in a bit garbled through the phone, but the word’s effect on Jessica is immediate.  Karen watches her shoulders clench, her muscles tighten, her jaw set itself viciously in her face.  “I heard about him.  Heard about him and the whole mind control thing he had going on.  Also heard he used it on some ex-military.  Guy from the Kozlov Program?”

“What do you know about the Kozlov Program?” she demands, her fingers gripping the edge of the  desk so tightly it splinters.  Karen takes a cautious step back, eyeing her purse.  “Castle.”  Jessica snaps at his silence, the hardness in her eyes now far outweighing the blank.

“Tell you what, ma’am.  I'll dig around the service for you.  Have my boy look into some overseas records.   _If_ you help us with our...situation.”

Finally she releases the desk, leaving severe finger-shaped engravings in the wood.  She leans back into her shabby little chair, taking up the bottle of whiskey once more, like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

“I expect my usual fee, on top of that information.  Deal?”

Frank and Karen respond in unison.

“Deal.”

_______________________________________________

After about six unsuccessful attempts and one moderately successful one to get their plan down on paper, Frank and Karen resign to sitting on the couch flipping through the cable channels and cracking open a bottle of wine.  He attempts to enjoy the six dollar cabernet--being of Italian stock, and accustomed to the hundred-odd dollar bottles he bought Maria on their anniversaries--but it's more their regained ease that brings the laughter to his lips.

“You know, I don't think I've had a glass of red in years,” he says, watching her fill him another glass.  Her smile dances across her face tonight, though not in the floppy way it had when she had stumbled in drunk over a week ago.

“Well, your line of work, you can't really afford hangovers, can you?”  He grins at her, finally allowing his muscles to unclench and his body to settle back into the couch.  He doesn’t answer her, but drains his glass and relinquishes it when she insists on pouring him another.  “Hey, Frank?”  She curls up into her spot beside him, bringing her knees up to meet her chest.  “What are you going to do?  You know, when we finally get a lock on...on who's been following you.”

He sighs, setting his glass down on her coffee table and pressing his fingers to his temples. The tentative look in her eyes tells him that she already knows the answer to that question--so why the hell ask it?  She's seen his crime scenes, his targets; she knows what kind of path he leaves in his wake.  So why would she bother pretending for an instant that it might possibly be something else?

“Karen, you _know_ I'm not a good person.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, Frank.”

“And that's good enough, huh?” he challenges, getting to his feet as if he’s going to abandon the apartment again on the spot.  “It’s good enough for you that--that I put bullets in fathers, in sons, brothers, boyfriends, all of ‘em, but I do it to keep ‘em from puttin’ bullets in anyone else?”  He treads a circle behind the couch, not noticing when Karen stands up to face him.  “That Irish kid, in court, _I_ did that to him, Karen.  And, what, you think that’s okay because I’m a headcase or something?”

“No, Frank, I don’t--I never--”  The way he’s moving recklessly around her living room, he reminds her of  a wounded animal, dripping with untamed aggression because someone has dipped her fingers into his weakness.  She cuts him off, reaching out and grabbing his arms to bring his frenzy to a halt.  “Frank!”  He looks up at her, his expression both angry and exhausted.

“You’re letting me ruin you, Karen.”

“I was ruined before you ever met me, Frank.”  Her teeth tug at her bottom lip, and it is with a cold pit forming in her stomach that she knows she needs to tell him the truth now.  About all of it.  “When I was eighteen, my little brother died in a car accident.  That I caused.”  She draws in a deep breath, feeling her bones begin to quake.  “I didn’t mean to--I was giving him a hard time about some girl he was dating.  Just being an older sister.  He was reaching over to, I don't know, give me a whack or something and wasn't paying attention.  We crashed, and I--I--”  She’s drawing in breath frantically now, struggling to find a place to put her hands, and fuck fuck fuck she never wanted to think about killing her brother again and “--I saw him bleeding and I ran, I thought to get help but I just kept running, until I was home and--”  She can't continue.  Air is moving rapidly in her chest, and she expects to feel that ugly sting of tears in her eyes but she doesn't.  All that happens is a swirling in her head so violent that she stumbles in place, reaching out in the last moment to get hold of the couch to steady herself.

“Karen,” Frank says softly.  She doesn't hear him.

“And I moved here,” she mutters, eyes honing in on the speck of lint on one of her couch cushions, willing the whirlwind to slow itself.  “And I thought things would be different.  Got a job at a nice company.  And the nicest damn guy from that company ended up dead next to me, his blood on a knife in my hands.”  She closes her eyes, her grip tightening.  “Got framed for murder, had someone attempt to murder me _twice_.  Fisk.  His little lackey caught me off-guard and thought he could bluff me into giving up all I knew about their little operation.”  Finally she steadies herself, relinquishing her hold on the couch and straightening her spine.  She opens her eyes at last, meeting his gaze with an animal-like ferocity that he's only ever seen on the battlefield.

“I shot James Wesley in the chest seven times.  Once to kill him, six more times to make sure he stayed good and dead.”  Pushing back all the fear of him she's ever had--the memories of bullets whizzing past her head while she led Grotto out of the hospital, the echo of the gunshot that ended Schoonover’s life in that shed in the woods, the sound of a pistol cracking bone as she shuddered under a counter in a back-end diner--she takes a step closer to him.

They stand face to face, his dark expression looming over her defiant one.  She breaks the silence a last time, letting the strings pulling her right hand settle it at the base of his neck, ensuring that their eyes won't break contact.

“You couldn't ruin me if you fucking tried, Castle.”

He wants to blame it on the wine.  He wants to pretend that _she_ has finally pushed past the limits of his self-control, but he knows there's no goddamn point.  Because all he really wants in that moment is to feel her, and for once, Frank leaves his discipline in the dust.

The tingle in his hand leads it to her waist, buzzing as he grabs her forcefully, knocking her off-balance as her chest meets his.  The strength of his grasp is countered by the ease of his mouth, catching hers softly against it, his lips pressing to hers so gently that they feel like the ghost of a kiss, until she pulls his face down a few degrees lower.  She tastes the gunpowder and sweat on him, moving her mouth with his in a clash of warm, rugged skin.  Her tongue edges into the crease of his lips, and he allows her access, letting her slide her tongue across his, tangling with his, heat rising in a balloon from her stomach up to her chest, and she’s wound so tight that kissing him will either wind her up tighter or loosen these past restraints.

“Karen,” he growls against her, and the combination of that rumble in his chest with the way his hands are digging desperately into the small of her back is enough to make her knees buckle.

“Frank,” she breathes.  “I need--”

“We can’t.”

“I know.”  She’s shaking in his arms--but shaking is the wrong word for it.  She’s nearly vibrating with lust, and the stiff presence pushing into her thigh tells her that he wants to stop as little as she does.  Nevertheless, she leans away just slightly, still close enough to feel his breathy sighs brush her lips.  “Should...should we stop?”

He looks at her slowly, that flash of tenderness she saw so long ago now filling his eyes.  She's vaguely aware of his thumb at her cheek, and the air leaving her chest because the way he's looking at her--

“You want to stop?”  He would if she says yes, she knows.  He would pretend to forget this, if she asks, but she won't.

She presses herself against him again, savoring his warm, rough tongue, and she slides her hands under the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head and casting it away on the floor.  He smirks.  Then she feels his calloused hands digging at the buttons on her blouse, popping it open one little plastic disc at a time.

“You know we shouldn't,” he whispers, sending a sharp tingle down her spine.  Meanwhile, her shirt flaps open, and he's pulling it off her, letting his fingers brush up her stomach, the lace of her bra.

“So do you,” Karen manages, quirking an eyebrow at him.  

He silences her with his mouth again, and suddenly she feels the kitchen table against her ass, and he’s pushing everything off it and onto the floor.  Her hands move up his chest, tracing the scars and muscles with a feathery touch.  She skims across him, pausing just below his collarbone--

 _Thump-ah-thump-ah-thump-ah_ \--

Heat fills her cheeks.  Her chest.

“Frank,” she whispers, bringing her hands up to frame his face.  He kisses her again, ever gentler, then brings his lips down to her chin, her neck.  She sighs when his teeth dig into her flesh, moans when he sucks it just hard enough.  And then he’s undoing the clasp of her bra, peeling the pencil skirt off her hips, dragging her thin panties down to her ankles.  In a flash of self-consciousness, she remembers: “F-Frank, I haven’t sha-- _ohh_ \--”

“Mm,” he hums against the nub between her legs, drawing that deliciously wet, warm tongue up and down in agonizing stripes on her clit.  Her knees buckle and quiver at his shoulders, but he laces his hands on the lower part of her belly, holding her in place so that he can lick her into oblivion.

She struggles to keep composure enough to look him in the eye while he goes down on her.  And God _damn_ does she look beautiful like this.  He decides he likes her hair best tousled with sex, and his hair being half-yanked out of his head by those dainty little fingers.  His dick grows ever harder at the way she’s starting to sweat, her hips lunging against his mouth.  He falters a little--moans into her pussy.  She pulls his head up again, now gazing lustfully and haughtily at him through half-lidded eyes.

“I need you to _fuck me_ , Frank,” she hisses.

“Ma’am--”  The unbuckling of his belt occurs almost simultaneously with its hitting the floor “--it would be my absolute pleasure.”

It’s the little curve of her smile that gets him right there.  Because she’s almost laughing at him for being all eager but she’s also almost licking her lips when she sees what’s between his legs--he’s never been one to brag on it, but he wears a pretty industrial-strength cup every time he goes out for a reason--and fucking A, knowing that he gets to _take_ what he _wants_ once and for all--

She’s got him wrapped around her little fucking finger.

Frank takes the time to lay a few more soft kisses along her collarbone, neck, up behind her earlobe, and then her lips again before he aligns himself at her entrance.

“Last chance to save me some dignity, ma’am,” he breathes against her ear.  She groans half-impatiently and half-breathlessly before grabbing his shaft and easing the tip of him into her.  The sweet little sounds start to just flow out of her throat when he pushes in a little deeper, letting her adjust to his shape before he lets himself in all the way.  And when that moment comes, he wants desperately to come, too, but not before she gets hers.

So he settles his teeth into the place where her neck curves into her shoulder, sucking lightly on her skin, and draws his hips back before rocking them up and forward again, a little shallower than before but enough that she gasps at the impact.  Her knees rise and squeeze against his waist, prompting him to fill her again.  And he does, thrusting back into her, but now his left hand envelops her breast and his right hand is drifting down between the place where they’re one, and--

The holding and rubbing and kissing and friction and the way that his _cock hits her in just the right spot_ \--

Karen comes in a flash of white, her hips bucking defiantly against his, forcing him as deeply into her as she can manage, her head thrown back in blinding ecstasy.  Her fingernails dig into his back, and she’s probably drawing blood right now but she can’t _help_ it, riding the waves with every push of him into her.  Her legs are trembling at his middle, and God she can’t help that he fits so perfectly inside her, she can’t help that she’s quivering around him and squeezing his cock the way she is--she almost doesn’t hear or maybe almost doesn’t believe the soft whimper at her ear:

“Karen--I need to--”

She breathes quickly that she’s on the pill and, “ _Yes,_ Frank!”

His hands find their way to the small of her back when he comes, cock twitching and spilling into her and the lower half of his body so tight and tense and locked into hers and she’s moaning again, her back arching so that her chest presses up against his as she comes again in his aftermath, her breasts pulsing under him with every heavy breath she takes.  It’s over too soon, but it’s wild and beautiful and everything and nothing like she’d ever known of him.

When they’re both panting and weak from this final break in the tension, he finally pulls out of her, letting his head drop feebly onto her shoulder.

  
“I think we broke your table, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long, guys! I haven't written smut before, so I hope it's okay. Thanks so much for reading, and hope your day goes great :)


	7. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The predictable "we can't be together" chapter, with some shocking news toward the end.  
> Chapter title comes from "Creep" by Radiohead

The first thing to hit Karen that morning is the sunlight filtering through her blinds straight through her eyelids and into her skull. _Too much_ _wine_ , she almost groans out loud, until she’s hit by the second and third things—the heavy arm draped across her waist and the warm breath tickling the back of her neck.

_ Fuck _ .

Frank is dead asleep, not quite snoring but breathing heavily against her from behind. And he’s naked, and so is she, and the memory of all the heated, rushed sex floods back to her in an instant. Slowly she extracts herself from him and slinks into a pair of boyshorts and a t-shirt before padding into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.

Her stomach is tumbling in her abdomen, and not just from the hangover that’s bound to follow her all day. It’s that she can still  _ feel _ him pressed up against her last night, still feel him inside her rocking her hips back and forth—

Her hands are shaking on the mug, and she decides it’s better just to drink it black today.

_ This was what you wanted, remember? _ The tiny voice in her head prods, pokes, knowing that it’s right beyond all reason.  _ You needed him to know how you felt and you wanted him to feel the same way.  He does.  Now here you are.  You knew what you wanted.  But you don’t know what to do with it now that you’ve got it. _

How can she?  He’s Frank, and she’s Karen.  She can’t dream of stepping into Maria’s shoes, someday trying to have his happy little babies who will never know their brother and sister.  There is no room in Frank’s heart for love anymore.  And, so they’re not kidding themselves, is there really any room in hers for it either?

“It’s too early for you to be beatin’ yourself up over this.”

She half-jumps out of her chair, feeling her heart race when he makes himself known.  He pours himself a cup of coffee and pulls up a chair of his own, keeping a safe distance from her.  And he looks just about as worn out and hungover as she does.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Guilt’s all over your face, Karen.  Plus,” he sighs, leaning his forehead onto the heel of his hand, “you think I’m not thinkin’ about it too?”

“What kind of person thinks about the dead family of the person they just fucked the night before?”  Uttering the words aloud tastes even worse than she’d expected, like bile and burnt toast.  He doesn’t read it, though, shaking his head with a humorless chuckle.

“The kind of person who’s fucking the wrong kind of person.”  He looks up at her again, and for a split second she wonders if he’s about to cry.  “You know, it never occurred to me, after she died.  You know, hearin’ all those guys in movies with a dead wife.  ‘Never thought I’d find someone else after her.’  I never thought about lookin’, you know?  And then in walks this girl, all blond hair and pencil skirts and gunpowder in her breath.  And then I find myself thinkin’ about her every time I pull a trigger.  Wantin’ to make her safe.  So what do I do?”  He shakes his head again, pulling back his lips in some semblance of a smile.  “I get closer.  I bring my sound and my fury into her world and I don’t look back.”

“I’m not trying to replace her, Frank.”

“I know you’re not.”  He takes a sip of his coffee, swallowing hard.  “You aren’t.  I’ve been thinkin’ about it since before it happened.”

He doesn’t tell her about the way his chest ached when she first kissed him, about how his hands were almost searching for Maria’s waist, how his nose was anticipating Maria’s perfume.  He doesn’t need to.  The silence that falls between them says enough.  He’s ached more than his fair share, and even though it sounds or feels or seems like a betrayal, he’ll deny it for her sake till the day he dies.

“Faulkner,” she says abruptly, finally breaking the silence.

“Huh?”

“You mentioned  _ The Sound and the Fury _ .  The book by Faulkner.”  She looks up at him, that blazing fire defiant in her eyes again.  “I read it in college.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.  “Maria sent it to me on my first deployment.”  Another long pause falls between them.  “It fit, I guess.  Readin’ that book with bullets blazing and bombs going off all around me. Guess the sound and fury in the book kept 'em a little quieter.”  He gazes down into his coffee, letting the dark scent drift up into his nose.  He remembers the way that Maria looked when they Skyped that first time, hair hanging around her neck in thick curls, cheeks all rosy and flushed.  He remembers her anxious little laugh, the way that she pretended not to tear up when he needed to get back to work.  He remembers the way her knuckles grazed her lip, smudging the lipstick just slightly, how he wanted to kiss it all off her right that instant.

And he remembers that she’s gone, and that it’s not fair to him or Karen that he just can’t seem to fill that hole with her.

“I should go.”  He stands abruptly, almost dashing to the sink to clean out his mug, letting the hot water slide up his wrists.  Karen follows, catching him by the arm when he goes to return the mug to its drying rack.

“Frank.”

“Karen, I can’t do this.”

“Frank, it was--”  She swallows, and he watches her pretend not to tear up, too.  There’s a coldness in his gut that insists he leave now, and never come back.  “--it was a mistake, just a slip-up, just one night.  We can’t just put away what’s happening, the fact that someone is tracking you, to kill you--”

There’s a heat in her gut that tells her to wrap her arms around him and never let him go.

He brushes past her, picking up his duffel bag and all the firepower he’s got stored in the closet, then stops himself before he walks out the door.  He paces back to the refrigerator, ripping a sheet off one of those magnetic notepads she’s got up there, and scribbles an address on one of the lines.

“Jones, Micro, and I are meeting there tonight at nine.”  He hesitates a moment longer, finally meeting her eyes as he hands it to her.  “Karen, I just--”  He breaks off with a sniff, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.  “Just need some time.”  And then, almost before he’s uttered the last word, he’s out the door, not a trace of him left in her apartment but the last whiff of his deodorant in the air.

_______________________________________________

Karen Page refuses to weep and pine.  Matter of fact, she can’t bring herself to do it--the tears won’t come any farther than the pit of her stomach.  Instead, she puts on her Tuesday best, pinning her hair up so tight the skin around her cheeks aches.  She goes into town, chasing leads on a drug smuggling ring in the northeast end of the Kitchen.  It’s no different than most days hunting criminal activity--fortunately, she only has to use her mace once this go-around.  And then, while cropping a photo of one of the indignant dealers, she knocks shoulders with someone.

“Hey, wa--Karen?  That you?”  Claire Temple grins at her, brushing a lock of that luscious black hair behind her ear.

“Hey, Claire, sorry about that.  My head’s sort of stuck in this case.”  She scrunches her nose a little to show that she’s not 100% in control of her brain at the moment.  “Where are you off to right now?

“Actually, heading home.  I’ve been applying everywhere for a nursing gig, but it’s starting to sound like Metro’s blackballing me.  What are you doing in Harlem?  This is pretty out of your way usually, isn’t it?”

“Just chasing leads, like always.”  She pauses, stowing her phone back into her purse.  “You know any good places for coffee around here?  If I do get my optimum amount of sleep, I can really only go about seven hours without a cup.”

“Yeah, there’s a place around the corner from my mom’s, actually.  I’ll walk with you, if you want.”  Karen quickly agrees, and then they’re side by side, asking all the necessary questions and responding with all the necessary answers, until Claire asks: “So, no offense, but you don’t look so good.  You’re obviously welcome to tell me to mind my own damn business, but…”  She trails off, leaving the pause hanging in the air between them.

“Um...it’s sort of complicated.”  Claire chuckles.

“Relationship stuff, huh?  That’s always complicated.”

“I’m not even sure I can call it a relationship, to be perfectly honest.”  She shakes her head, running a hand through her hair.  “He’s a...friend of mine, with some pretty nutty circumstances in his life right now, and I’ve been letting him stay at my place when he needs to bunker down.  And we, uh...got a little more involved with each other than I think we had planned to.”  She gives a half-smile, meeting Claire’s eyes.  “And now I’m not really sure if getting involved was a mistake or...I don’t know, if it was supposed to happen.”

Claire thinks on her conundrum for a minute, only breaking silence to indicate the little coffeeshop she’d mentioned and thank Karen for holding the door for her.  She finally seems to come to a conclusion after they’ve been seated and poured a cup of coffee.

“Again, you’re welcome to tell me to mind my own damn business at any time…”  She stops for a moment, to see if Karen will actually take her up on that offer.  “...but, unfortunately when it comes to life, deep down I am one of those cheesy saps who will tell you that everything happens for a reason.  You know, how people are always saying it’s better to try than to leave things unspoken and wonder about them the rest of your life?  I guess I agree.  I’d rather not let the universe decide things for me, you know?”

Karen can’t help but smile again, and take a sip from her coffee.

“I don’t suppose you’d stomp on the confusion of it all and just date me instead, would you?”  Claire eyeballs her for a minute, looking amused and skeptical all at once.

“You know, I’m not a hundred percent sure you’re joking.”

“Neither am I.”  They look at each other for a moment longer before bursting into laughter, wiping their eyes and ignoring both dirty and weary looks from fellow patrons.  The waitress who was about to come to take their order stalls a moment, wearing a polite but unamused smile, and Karen realizes that’s the first time she’s laughed--really laughed--in weeks.

“God, I’m sorry,” she sighs, unable to wipe the grin from her face, even when ordering an English muffin with extra bacon.  “I’m not gonna lie, I’ve definitely had a girl crush on you since our first interview.  But then the whole grappling with my sexual orientation by experimenting isn’t really conducive with my schedule right now, on top of all the other bullshit that’s been going on.”

“No worries, I totally understand.  I think.”  It doesn’t hurt that Claire’s still grinning, too, makes Karen feel much less insecure and much more at ease.  “I’ve been keeping busy running up and down Harlem trying to find a clinic to take me.  Dating isn’t really first on my list right now either.”

“Well, I appreciate you joining me on this non-date, nonetheless.  It’s nice to have...just friends these days.”  She wants to spill it all out there for her on the table, just to have one person who she can be totally honest with, one person who can know the whole story.  “Look, the truth is, the guy I’m...involved with.  He, uh, lost his wife and kids recently and is by no means even close to stable and even though, you know, sometimes we feel like we fit like a glove…”

“You feel like you’re trying to replace them?”  Claire raises an eyebrow, but the look on her face is far from judgmental.  Karen nods, looking into her lap.

“And I know I can never even begin to fill those shoes, but...it’s hard to walk in the door and see empty shoes there, you know?”  She fiddles with her napkin, glancing up gratefully when breakfast is placed before her.

“You’re struggling with expectations that were never meant for you,” Claire paraphrases, and Karen’s elated to have someone around who can put the gucky pit in her stomach into words.

“Exactly.”  They are silent for a while, eating and letting the sounds of the city fall seamlessly into the cafe.  Karen slowly remembers that she only asked Claire about finding a good spot for coffee, and they never quite discussed sitting down for breakfast, but maybe that’s what friends are for--semi-impromptu breakfast dates talking about the many ways in which Frank Castle drives her up a wall.  She’s almost allowed herself this fine little moment of peace and content when the TV mounted in the corner opposite them mentions a familiar name.

“...Wilson Fisk this morning making the appeal for early release after only fourteen months served of his thirty year sentence for the seemingly neverending list of crimes including but not limited to, multiple counts of bribery, conspiracy to commit murder, multiple counts of fraud, and a thirty year murder case.  More on Fisk tonight at eight.”

The reporter's following words slowly begin to bleed together and fade, and Karen's head goes fuzzy, her throat dry.  She can faintly hear Claire saying her name, but the fuzziness in her brain keeps her from answering.

_ Wilson Fisk. _

_ Early release. _

Her heart is beating in her ears again, and the breakfast she’s just eaten fights it way back up her esophagus.  She half-stumbles to the bathroom, not bothering to lock the door behind her before emptying her guts into the toilet.  Her hands are shaking on the edge of the toilet seat, and she feels someone pulling the hair stuck to her face back into a ponytail on top of her head.

“Hey, hey,” Claire says softly, tying the ponytail off with a rubber band.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

“Fisk,” Karen manages to choke out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.  “Fisk is…”

“Let me call you a cab back to your place.”  Claire grabs a paper towel from the dispenser and wets it in the sink, cleaning Karen’s face for her.  “You are...done chasing leads today.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen whispers, wobbling up to her feet like a newborn giraffe.  “I’m--I’m okay.”

Claire eases her shoulder under Karen’s armpit and guides her outside, tossing some cash onto the table to cover their bill.  Karen is still dizzy, trying to focus on one thing at a time to keep herself from vomiting again.  The lightpost across from them--the sidewalk beneath her feet--the crabgrass popping out of the cracks in the sidewalk.  She looks and she breathes until her head returns to her and she can stand on her own.

“Thanks, Claire.”  She straightens up, shifting her purse as high up onto her shoulder as she can.  “I’m--I’m sorry about...all that.  I just need to get home and...get myself together.”

“Yeah, of course.  I’m sorry you’re...not feeling well.”  The inflection in her voice tells Karen that she knows more than she’s letting on, she knows that it’s more than just a stomach bug or food poisoning.  She’s not there with Claire yet, though, can’t bring herself to tell her about Daniel lying dead beside her, or about Wesley lying dead across from her.  Still, Claire Temple waves and smiles when the cab pulls away, that tentative but caring sparkle in her eyes. 

Karen opens the last contact she wants to, and hits CALL. 

“Karen?  Is everything okay?”

“Matt, Wilson Fisk is appealing for an early release.”

“...fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys, and I'm so sorry it took so long! I had a LOT of stuff going on in December and I will definitely be busy this spring, but I'll do my best to keep updating as much as possible. I really REALLY appreciate all your support, and hope you had a wonderful holiday and a fantastic day today :)


	8. Bury Me With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank and Micro find the tail, Frank cannot ignore his nightmares, and some things come to an understanding.  
> Title comes from Bury Me With It by Modest Mouse.

Frank heads to Micro’s place directly after leaving Karen’s.  His head stirs on his way there, but there isn’t a secure thought that can live there more than a fraction of a second.  Instead he sits in muddled confusion in his car on the way to the unassuming apartment in the north end of the Bronx.  He parks in the back, where the stairwell has no windows and smells not infrequently like piss. He taps on the door, then hears the rolling of Micro’s office chair before being let in.

“Morning, my friend,” the shorter man grins, dropping himself back into his place in front of a massive desktop setup, opening up six windows that seem to show six differently-angled security cameras on one street not far from Karen’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

“What do you got for me?” Frank asks gruffly, clearing himself a seat on the couch behind the office chair, so he can get a good look at the screen from behind his companion.  The apartment is small, a studio, made yet smaller by all the file cabinets, scattered CD cases, and rings of flash drives with Sharpied on dates and names.  Other than the ample and somewhat organized clutter, the place is remarkably clean, as David likes it.

“Well, I got you in the street--”  He rewinds the footage to show Frank as a fish in the sea, dark clothes and ball cap camouflaging him into the crowd.  Then he begins to fast forward, pointing to several different figures passing down the same street, not long after.  “--and these lovely folks are the only ones following close enough behind you who are also packing heat.”  A short, stout man with a vein popping in his forehead, shouting at someone on the phone.  No.  A tall, slim woman, brunette, sunglasses on and earphones in.  Possibly.  Then--

“Pause.”  Frank stands and, squinting, points to the screen: a tall guy in a hoodie, also wearing sunglasses, but if he looks close enough under the hood he can spot the closely cropped hair, the spindly scars running down the side of his face.  “Can you zoom in on that guy?”  Micro does as told, enhancing the shot so that they can have a closer-up profile of the guy’s face.  Without accounting for the sunglasses, the guy could be in his 30s or 40s, having seen some damage in his day--regular street activity or military?  “You got any more footage of this guy?”

“Let’s see,” Micro replies cheerfully, returning to the screen with all the different angles of Frank walking down the street.  In each they successfully watch the hooded man trailing about thirty meters behind Frank, close enough to track him but far enough to avoid detection.  Micro flickers through about ten different security camera points, ten different blocks, before the man plain disappears, as if he’d never walked that street.

“What happened?” Frank asks gruffly, frowning when Micro rewinds.  They seek out the hooded man five more times before finally giving up.  Even Micro is frowning when they cease their search.

“Alright, so there’s gotta be a blind spot between 54th and 55th…”  He starts typing furiously, jumping from screen to screen, window to window, typing in numbers and letters and symbols that blend together and make Frank’s temples ache.  The taller man turns away, wandering the apartment and examining the scattered articles of Micro’s trade.

“You ever get out of here, Dave?”  He toes an old desktop lying against the wall.  All these big obsolete pieces of technology, abandoned almost as soon as they’d been adopted, give him the creeps.  Big broken pieces of yesterday’s tomorrow.  He wishes Micro would get rid of some of it. 

“Sure,” Micro says, and Frank is certain he’s grinning.  “Gotta fulfill all the hopes and dreams of all my chat room girls.”  Frank snorts, rolling his eyes.  “Oh, I’m fine.  What about, uh, your girl?  Karen?”

“What about ‘er?”  He turns gruff once more, jaw clenching.  He spots Micro’s grin shifting into a flicker of a smirk, and has a half a mind to clobber it off his face.

“You didn’t check in after you got there last night.  And you’re lookin’ a  _ little _ sleep deprived.  So, uh...what happened?”

“Drop it.”  Dave can almost swear Frank is blushing under the five o'clock shadow, but the way his eyes harden and every muscle tenses tell him not to push any further. 

“Fine.  Fine.  None of my business.  I do have to ask for security’s sake, will she be coming over tonight?  And your private eye?”

“Think so.”  The wheels on the office chair creak as David whirls around, locking his hands behind his head, letting his neck extend and relax.  “You got the information on Kozlov for the other girl?”

“Some.”  He lifts one of the files on his desk into the air, a grayscale photo of a white-bearded, bespectacled man pensively attached, then lets it drop.  “Lot of work in Baghdad, some experimental stuff, but nothing yet to do with what it is he did to her back when, if anything.  The less recent the activity, the harder it is to really crack into.  I'm guessing he’s got a lot of distant past info physically archived.”  He rolls his chair to the nearby mini fridge, popping it open to grab himself a Diet Coke, then offer Frank one.  Frank shakes his head, descending back into the couch.  “You trust that PI, Frank?  I looked into her powers and all, that shit checks out.  But it seems to me like she's done a lot of covering her own tracks.”

“Karen does, or at least she seems like she does.”  He yanks a loose string off one of his sleeves, twisting it between his fingers.

“And you for sure, positively trust Karen?”

Frank swallows.  It feels like a trick question.  And he could try to pass it off nonchalantly, he could just let it roll right off his shoulders.  But he's in too deep already, and he and Dave know it.  Fuck Dave for knowing it. 

“Yeah.  With everything I got.”

_______________________________________________

She lies facing away from him, her back pressed to his chest as he rests his face in the crook of her neck.  She shifts, sighs, fingers tightening around his hands on her waist.  She smells like soft linens.  The light in her apartment is soft, too.  Not piercing like that morning, not driving them to jolt awake and return to the abrupt and bloody lives they usually lead.  He strains his muscles to pull her closer and keep her there.  His hands are wet.  Her waist is wet.  She turns over.

Her white tank top she was wearing that one night is painted red from the wound in her gut, a big pile of torn-up flesh where her stomach used to be.  Crimson streams leak from her mouth, little sputtering whimpers escaping her lips.  Her wide, empty eyes gaze unseeing into his face.

He suddenly feels the knife’s handle between his fingers.

They dissolve.

He’s lying on the ground in a dank, dirty warehouse, life oozing out of him in about six different places.  He struggles to his knees, head spinning and lights flashing in front of his eyes.

Click.

_ Don’t move _ , she says, tinny yet rough.   _ Do not move.  Frank. _

_ Karen? _  His lungs are heavy.  He’s fighting a losing battle.  There’s a splitting in his throat, threatening to crack his vocal cords in half.   _ Karen, you don’t gotta do this. _

_ I do, Frank. _  Her voice breaks.  He can hear the tears in her mouth.  Can feel the blood on her lip.  A barrel nudges the back of his head.  Her shoes crunch against the gravel.  She draws a shuddering breath. 

_ I loved you, Frank _ .

The barrel quivers against his scalp.  Her finger tightens on the trigger.  Frank hears his heartbeat in his own ears.  She sniffs.  A lone tear falls as the gun fires.  He hears his own voice, but can't be sure he's saying the words. 

_ I know you did _ .

Frank shudders awake, sweat on the back of his neck.  His pulse continues to thrum in the front of his head.  Micro’s apartment swells and shrinks, the walls buzzing loudly.  Micro swivels in his office chair, frowning down at him.  It was he who’d suggested Frank get some rest.  Micro asks something.  Frank cannot hear him.  Micro grips his shoulder, shaking--shaking--shaking.

“ **Frank!** ”  He gasps in a deep breath, yanking at his own hair.  “Frank, what the hell?  You good?”

“I’m good--I’m good,” he pants, letting his face fall into his hands.  The city is dark outside.  “Time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.  Girls gonna be on their way soon.  What  _ was  _ that, man?  I’ve never seen you…”

“I’m good,” he insists, the darkness returning to his voice.  “I’m good.  I’m gonna--bathroom.”

“Yeah, yeah, go for--”

He shuts the door on the last word, switching on the faucet and collecting a pool of cold water in his hand to splash onto himself.  He looks in the mirror but can’t find his own face.

Frank Jr.  The back of his throat hollowed out, pupils the size of a pinhead.  Blood dripping from his lips and nose.  Mouth wide open in a cry that never escapes.

Maria.  Bleeding from the same hole in the gut in his dream, but she with tears running down her face, his and his children’s names departing her lips in whispers.  His hands on her back as the life leaves her in each breath.

And Lisa.  Only recognizable by her clothes, her face blown into meat, bones shattered and scattered in her muscle tissue.  Her heart beats faintly against his hand, slowing to a stop in his palm.   _ Daddy.  Daddy.  Daddy. _

He could take a whole cell block at once, but he couldn’t save his family.

The Hot Pocket Micro had heated up for him scrambles up his throat and barely makes it into the toilet.  His mouth burns like hell, his head spinning.  And still, that vengeful red organ thumps in his chest, day by day by day.

“Frank,” Dave mutters through the door, giving it a brief rap.  “They’re here.”

“Gimme a minute.”  He spits the last of it.  Rinses his mouth out.  Flushes himself out with water again, pops a mint from the weird fucking jar on the counter, praying it won’t fight its way up as well.  He cracks the door, revealing Dave, who's trying to look like he's not concerned. 

“You good?”  His voice is low, almost offhand.  Frank grunts assent.  He turns away when Micro goes to open the door, helps himself to the coffeemaker.  The idle chatter in the walkway buzzes indistinct in his ears, unnecessary.  Unimportant. 

“That's him?” Jessica Jones asks, with a sharp eyebrow raised.  Karen’s lips are locked in an indifferent grimace.  “Not as tall as I’d imagined.”

“Frank tends to be full of surprises,” Karen huffs, pulling a pen and notepad out of her bag before setting it down carefully by the door.  Micro smiles. 

“Ain't that the truth.  Could I get you ladies anything?  Our drink menu today consists of coffee, water, and Diet Coke.”

“Water, please.”  Karen makes brief eye contact with Jessica and heads straight for the couch, keeping her gaze on her feet as she passes the kitchen.  She flips open her notepad, going over the vague scribblings she'd jotted down while exploring Harlem today.  She is not thinking of Claire.  Of the diner.  Of the night before.  

She starts when Jessica plops onto the sofa beside her, the latter popping the tab on the Diet Coke she’d been given and pouring in a harsh-smelling something from the flask in her pocket.  Jessica's face is stony.  She says nothing.  Karen knows that she does not trust her, or what they're sitting in, or any of them.  She doesn't blame her. 

“They'll get you what you need,” she insists quietly.  Micro fills her a glass of water.  Karen decides to like him.  She takes it with as genuine a smile as she can muster. 

“We’ve got something of a lead, but it's not quite...definite yet.”  Micro opens up his desktop, shuffling files and windows around.  The screen is too bright.  A dull ache flushes into Karen's forehead. 

He explains the situation with the disappearing man, showing them the footage from the security cameras in town.  He indicates the unnatural bulges in the man’s wardrobe which are meant to hide the heat he’s carrying.  He opens a map of the Kitchen, pointing at the blind spot between blocks. 

Frank lingers at the kitchen counter, facing them with his eyes trained on a spot about two feet in front of him on the floor.  He frowns into his cup of coffee.  Karen does not feel her stomach burning.  She does not want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back into reality. 

“...and this would be a lot less disturbing if Cavella hadn't just stapled a note on his little underling’s chest with a date, time, and location, addressed to Frank.”

“What?”  It's a knee-jerk reaction, the way she snaps into herself.  Her slip does not go unnoticed; Jessica’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead, and Frank finally looks up from that spot on the floor.  Their eyes meet for the first time that night.  His are tired, almost defeated.  And as usual, hers are filled with fire, but this one burns stronger than he's ever seen in her before. 

“I w’s trying to get closer into his little circle,” he says gruffly, setting his mug down on the counter.  “After I finished who all I needed to in the front part’a the bar, guy comes stumbling out of the back.  He's got a knife in his eye and a piece of paper stuck to his chest. Just says my name, some restaurant near your old office, and ‘8/23, 10 am,’ with ‘Nicky’ written on the bottom.”

“It’s a trap,” Jessica says, having a swig from her can.  She reclines into the couch, folding one leg over the other.  “Public meeting place.  Broad daylight.  Plus, you have a tail you can’t  _ definitely _ identify yet.”  She sighs, pushing off the couch to lean over Micro’s shoulder, watching the security footage through squinted eyes.  “I’ve done this song and dance before.”

“Yeah?”  Frank’s eyes take a playful light, edged with disbelief that Karen’s fairly certain only she can see.  “You ever walked right into it before?”  Jessica smirks, rolling up her sleeves.

“Not without a hefty load of planning, Castle, and I presume you’ll take the same precautions.”   _ Wait a minute, is she  _ **_flirting_ ** _? _

“Damned if I don’t,” he smirks back, nodding to Micro and then, finally, meeting Karen’s eyes again.  Something in his gaze shifts, less defensive and self-preserving, more inquisitive.  It lingers only a moment, before he turns himself back to the group.  “Micro, you’ll be handling as much security footage as you can, yeah?  There’s at least six cameras on this block.  Be in our ears.”  He turns to Jessica, face stiff and once more unyielding.  “Jones.  I’m gonna need you in the rooftops and fire escapes, looking out for a sniper.  Need your eyes to keep me from getting killed on sight.”

“Will do.”  Karen gathers herself up, sitting straight.  She anticipates his gaze, hungry to accept any challenge he’ll assign her.  That stinging defeat meets her again, its lip hard facing her.

“You stay here that day.  I don’t want you in the middle of all this, when the shit hits the fan.”  She prepares to fire back, already drawing in breath to drum up a retort--

But then she sees him again.  Tired.  Still defensive, expecting her to fight his orders tooth and nail, as usual.  But the way he swallows, his lower lip jutting perhaps a centimeter forward of its usual position, his brows tightening, begs her, just this once, to submit. 

“Okay.  Yeah.”  His shoulders sag with relief, and she hesitantly begins to relax into her seat, still circling the rim of her glass with the tip of her finger. 

“Thank you.”  And then he leans back, letting Micro explain to Jessica exactly the plan for the day of the meeting.  Karen is only half-listening, observing the way that Frank turns his back to them, leaning on his palms against the kitchen counter.  She stands, placing her notepad and glass on a free spot on the coffee table. She makes her way to him, maintaining a respectful distance nearer to the hallway. 

“Are you...okay?” she says softly, deliberately eyeing the photoless magnets on the refrigerator.  He makes some assenting noise, not turning to face her.  “I'm sorry, I'm not trying to--”

“Don't gotta be sorry.”  He stands up straighter.  His arms tense and release, tense and release.  “You want me to come back tonight.”  It's not a question. 

“Yeah,” she sighs, folding her arms over her chest.  Her throat is tight.  “Fisk is making an appeal.  I'm not...feeling very safe.”

“Red gonna be around?”  She feels the little stab, but just barely. 

“No.  I told him to look out for himself tonight.  I'm meeting with him and, uh, Foggy tomorrow.  Feeling out our options.”  Her face is burning.  She doesn't notice him glance at her from the corner of his eye. 

The pause lasts several moments, the two of them locked in position while their allies plot not thirty feet away.  He breaks finally, pushing away from the counter and matching her stance, tucking his hands into his ribs. 

“I'll come with you.”  She nods, bringing the back of her hand to her mouth.  Pretends he can't see her start to cry.  “I gotta sleep alone tonight, though.”

“Yeah.”  She sniffs, looking to the ceiling to blink the rest of her tears away.  “Yeah, I understand.”  She drops it, setting her hands free then brushing one of them through her hair, feeling the knots break between her fingers. 

  
_ No,  _ he frowns, turning his head to face her at last.  He sees her again: bloody, broken, fading from life.  Hears her breath shaking as she puts a bullet in his skull.   _ No, you don't.   _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and sorry that this has been taking so long :P I've been busy with school, work, and I had LASIK surgery on Saturday, so things have been a bit hectic.  
> I'm still not entirely sure that I'm happy with the choices I've made in this chapter, so please let me know your thoughts if you have a moment.  
> It may be a while until I have the next chapter up; life continues to throw its best pitches at me, but I promise I'm doing my best.  
> ALSO, I have a really interesting story idea, and I'm not certain if I should add it as a chapter later along the line in this fic or let it stand alone as a one-shot once I write it. If you're interested in hearing/responding to my idea, check out
> 
>   
>  [this tumblr post](http://that-wimpy-cowboy-doll.tumblr.com/post/157261218717/help-writerreader-friends-in-the)   
> 


	9. Unforgettable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the law offices of Nelson and Murdock (plus Marci Stahl) convene at their usual watering hole to discuss the ramifications of Wilson Fisk's appeal for early release. Matt walks Karen home, much to her chagrin, and predictably gives her a hard time about Frank.  
> Title comes from Unforgettable by Nat King Cole.

The sting of whiskey--or whatever it might be--hits Karen’s tongue just right that night.  She lets it linger in her mouth before swallowing, feeling her eyes grow shinier as they meet Foggy’s, Marci’s, and finally the stiff, shiny black of Matt’s sunglasses.  Marci shakes her head as if it will rid her of the taste, but smiles almost knowingly at Karen.  She glances quickly away, brushing her hair behind her ears and clearing her throat.  Matt seems to recognize this little tic, this little defense mechanism, and pulls a grim smile, reaching over to touch her arm.  She resists the urge to flinch away.

“So.  How are we evading the wiles of the monstrous Kingpin yet again?” Foggy interjects, clapping together and rubbing his hands in mock excitement.  Karen grins, thankful as always for Foggy.

“Well, we know he’s bribing everyone in the system he can,  _ again _ .”  Frank had told her about the guard who had convinced him to throw his trial, about being locked in with a cell block of homicidal inmates.  And then Matt had also told them how he’d gone to speak to Fisk, and how the guards in the visitation room bent to his every whim once more--when asked why he’d gone to speak to him, he started to fumble again, and that cold pit in Karen’s stomach told her he still had his secrets.

“Where is all this money coming from?”  Foggy throws his hands into the air; he smells of both jealousy and incredulity.  “With his girlfriend off all comfortable on some island and all this cash flowing to his lawyers and his guards and his little friends there, he has to has his hands in something fishy.”

_ Foggy, I swear, you’re the only person under sixty who still says “fishy” in casual conversation _ .  She nods though, chewing her lip.  “I heard that lawyer of his is a real piece of work.  Heard he’s been working in some of the Harlem cases, keeping the real questions from being asked.”

“Donovan,” Matt says, pushing his palm against his chin, and the way that his stubble scratches against his skin seems to echo in her ears over the din of the bar.  “Donovan is slippery, no doubt about it.  Maybe Fisk has contacts in Harlem?  Maybe has something to do with those Harlem cases?”

“I can probably dig up some stuff about him at the firm, look at some archives,” Foggy adds helpfully, and before the last word is out, Marci’s tapping on her phone with one hand, twirling a strand of hair around her finger with the other.

“He’s been with Fisk since just before you guys sent him to Ryker’s.  Hoity-toity type, mostly does cases uptown, but he’s made exceptions for the high and mighty around these parts.   _ That’s _ interesting…”  She leans forward, a frown climbing up her face.  “About sixty percent of the cases he’s  _ won _ have been defending OSCORP.  You know, workers’ comp and personal injury sort of stuff.”

“How do you have access to this stuff on your  _ phone _ ?”  Foggy’s incredulity brings another smile to Karen’s face, but Marci remains all business.

“Most recently, defending Cornell Stokes and Candace Miller, both involved with jazz club Harlem’s Paradise, neither cases officially going to court, both of whom are now deceased under suspicious circumstances.  No clear connection to Fisk, though, didn’t seem like any of his cash flow was going to or coming from Harlem.”  She quirks an eyebrow, sucks on her lower lip.  “I mean, there’s no guarantee that his appeal will actually make it to a public courtroom, and if it does, we’ve still got plenty of witnesses who can attest to the kind of atrocious being Wilson Fisk  _ is _ .”  Karen pretends that Marci’s eyes don’t flicker over to her for an instant, that unintentional pity echoing through the soft green.

“I won’t object to testifying,” she says quickly, absently tapping the edge of her shot glass against the bar.  Josie takes it the wrong way, though, comes over looking surly, and pulls it from Karen’s hand, fills it with questionable whiskey again.  Karen manages a well-meaning grimace and downs the shot.  “Only questions about Daniel and Union Allied, though.  I have no intention of really getting into all the politics with the whole Daredevil thing.”

Marci nods, and Matt attempts to drown himself in his watered-down beer.  “I think that can be managed, but we do have to prepare you for any curveballs Donovan might throw you.”

A chill runs down Karen’s spine.  Fisk couldn’t possibly know that it was her.  Wesley.   _ Seven shots _ .  If he had known, she’d be dead by now, no questions asked.

“Yeah.  Well, we’ll get there when we get there, I guess.”  She makes work of edging her fingernail against the already-chipped paint on the bar, letting the flakes curl around her index finger and fall away.

“Realistically, his appeal shouldn’t be able to make it very far,” Matt chimes in.  “There are so many offenses he’s serving sentence for, and plenty of victims who might be able to testify their concerns about his possible parole.  What it really comes down to is the parole board.”  She frowns.

“He wouldn’t go before a judge and jury?”  Foggy shakes his head.

“Parole appeals go before a parole board--which could include judges he’s faced or not faced, prison psychiatrists, criminologists; basically, people who have studied and  _ should be _ qualified to say who gets out at what time.”  He rolls his eyes.  “ _ Should _ being the operative word.”

She feels stupid for adding uneducated unlawyerly questions and commentary that the three of them shoot down one after the other, so eventually she just shuts up, eyeing the bottom of her glass and chipping, chipping, chipping at the paint on the bar until she finally catches the dirty look Josie is throwing her.

“...I mean, other than that,” Foggy is saying, “I don’t know what else we can really do at this point.”

“ _ Ugh _ ,” Marci says, rolls her eyes and pushes her hands back through her hair.  “I hate this part of lawyering.  Waiting.  Knowing what could happen but having  _ no fucking options _ .”

“I’ve got the hints of an article up on my word processor,” Karen offers.  “And after all the publicity  _ The Bulletin _ gave him at the beginning of all this, I don’t anticipate any more of a target on my back than is to be expected, I guess.”

“That could help with the victims who are too afraid to testify right now.”  Something in Matt’s voice is too soft now, the breath leaving his throat too lightly.  As if the weight of his double life rests on his windpipe now, and he’s only just realizing that it’ll be the end of him.  “Alert people to the fact that the Kingpin could be running loose again soon.  The ruin he caused the last time.”

_ Daniel’s blood between her fingers. _

_ The guard’s hands around her neck. _

_ Seven shots. _

“Yeah.”  The way her head bobs up and down doesn’t exactly qualify as a nod, but the rest of them seem to accept it anyway.

The whiskey goes down easier after that.  Even though it tastes both too strong and too watery, maybe a little dirty, it goes down easier.  She starts to lose count, and even the paint starts to chip easier under her nails.  The other three are still talking, though it’s mostly Foggy and Marci, and even under the alcohol she can feel Matt...watching her, in his way.  When she looks up--after a minute or after ten or maybe after no time at all--he’s facing her with that stone-cold expression, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but she’s wondering why she broke it off with him in the first place.

But then she remembers the little cuts and bruises that he insisted were from car accidents, falling into doorknobs.  She remembers a man in a black mask saving her from Fisk’s minions, remembers Matt the next day flashing her that sympathetic smile of his.  She remembers Elektra in his bed, the fiasco that was Frank’s trial.

“Karen?” Foggy says, his hand on her elbow.  She turns to him, setting the shot glass that had nearly melded to her hand down on the bar.  “It’s just about two.  Need us to call you a cab?”

“Yeah, actually--”  She sucks air in too fast, has to cough it off for a second, then glances back up at him, eyes watering.  “--sorry, yeah, that would, uh, that’d be great.”

“I could walk you back,” Matt says, not surprising her in the least.  “Your place isn’t too far from here.  You could call me a cab when we get there, if you want.”  Karen wonders if she’s the only one to recognize that his smile is a little too tight to be completely innocent.

“Matt, you really don’t have to.”  But his mind is set.  Marci looks on in an appalled frenzy, whispering unsubtly to Foggy that it’s two o’clock in the goddamn morning in Hell’s Goddamn Kitchen, and they can’t let those two do this.  And it takes a moment, but the rare earnesty of Foggy’s expression finally convinces her, at least on the surface, to drop it.

“ _ Please _ text me when you get in.  Do you have my number?”  And before Karen can confirm or deny, her phone is in Marci’s hands, and those perfectly manicured fingers are tapping in some blurry number and some blurry name next to some blurry emojis, and that’s that.  She squeezes Karen’s shoulder as Foggy tries to usher her out, the quick hugs being administered in front of the bar.

And then it’s just her and Matt.

“So...shall we?”  He offers a rather stiff arm to match the smile.   _ Fuck _ .  She takes it, if only to humor him.  “How...are things going outside this whole Fisk bombshell?”

“Good.”  She pauses, half-skipping over a puddle of what she hopes is water.  “We got a visual on the guy that’s been following Frank.  My articles have made front page four days this last week.  Peachy.”   _ God _ , these heels had seemed a much better idea when she thought she’d be taking a cab home.

“That’s...good.”  He pauses this time, and she can swear she  _ sees _ the wheels turning in his head.  “Karen, what is it with you and Frank?”  Another pause.  She doesn’t fill it.  “He went off the radar six months ago, and now he just shows up out of the blue and you’re playing along with it every step of the way?  That’s...that’s not  _ you _ , Karen.”

“How do you know what  _ is _ me, Matt?”  She means it to come out stronger, angrier, but the feeling has died in her throat.  He can think what he will about her.  Nothing she’d say would change his mind.  “I’m sorry.  I know you just want  _ the best _ for me.”  She chews her tongue a moment, regretting letting Matt  _ insist _ on walking her home.

“You said, back during the trial, that you personally felt...Frank belonged in jail.  Right?”  She wants to hate him for turning her words on her.  But she nods.  “And now...all those exposé pieces about him, about his family, and his crime scenes...where did things change?  If he deserves to be in prison for the things he’s done, why are you keeping him out?”

She doesn’t have a good answer.  Of course she doesn’t.  There isn’t a good answer.

“There’s more to it than just the murders, Matt.  There’s more to it than the--than the revenge, or the ‘punishment’...”  She stops a moment, listening to their shoes across the wet pavement, echoing against the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen, the car horns in the distance and the buzzing of street lights.  “It’s almost like...it’s almost like in some ways he’s punishing himself.  I don’t know how, or why, or if it’s guilt over his family, or--”  She sighs, pushing a lock of hair out of her face.  “I don’t know.  But he  _ needs _ to do it, Matt.  And if I have to say it’s for the good of the city, then I will.”  Silence falls between them until they’re standing outside her apartment building, some sort of unspoken truce to leave Frank where he belongs between them.  She fishes her keys out of her purse, unlocks the door, and begins to push it open.  “Do you actually need me to call you a cab, Matt?”

“I think I’ll make it,” he chuckles.  And again that pregnant pause, in which she’s shouldering the door and almost waiting to be dismissed and he stops to choose his last words to her tonight carefully.  “Thank you for coming out tonight, Karen.  It was...really nice to see you.”

“You, too, Matt.  Take care.”

When the door closes behind her, she doesn’t look back.  She takes the stairs instead of the elevator up to the seventh floor, breathless as she unlocks her own door.

And sure as hell Frank is on her couch doing something or other with his guns, a faint gunpowder-and-sweat-and-something-oddly-sweet scent emanating from him, and now she’s convinced that he’s leaked his essence into the blood of her apartment.

“Hey,” she calls softly from the other side of her counter, not looking up as she hangs her purse on its hook and slides out of her shoes.

“Hey.”  Another unsurprised sigh pushes up out of her mouth; he’s back to his gruff, unyielding self, the role he played with Matt and Foggy in the hospital room so many months ago.  She glides past him into her bedroom, swinging the door closed behind her and ambling into her coolest set of pajamas.

As she tucks herself into bed, she can hear Frank rustling about in her living room, finally opening the window to let himself out on her fire escape and shutting it behind him.  She closes her eyes, hoping fruitlessly that it will be easier to forget him someday, hoping that the bloody blaze of glory that will take Frank Castle to his grave will come silently and expected, and that she will have long parted ways with him by that time.  She hopes against hope that that gunpowder-sweat-something sweet smell will have bled out of her own veins before he leaves her life someday in the far future.

In her daze of half-hearted hope and stale whiskey, Karen falls asleep without having spotted the plate of ginger snaps on her nightstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. If you're reading this, I'm so sorry for having been gone for so long. It's kind of a long story, but less than 12 hours after I posted the last chapter, my dad died in a freak accident caused by the storms in Northern California. He and I were really close, and it's been really fucking hard to write since. I hope you know I'm not giving up on this fic, because it brings me a lot of joy (and frustration) to bring it to you as often as I can. I'll stick this out if you do.  
> Also, I've been thinking a lot about my characterization of Karen and I want to do a lot more background on her in the coming chapters; where exactly she came from, why "Ben didn't care, and neither" does Mitch, and more about her little brother and the ginger snaps she hid in her broom cupboard. I've read a lot of Punisher comics recently, too, which are giving me some more insight (a bit of which I shared briefly in this chapter) on Frank's character. If you have any comments, constructive criticism, or anything, really, that you'd like to share with me to help make this fic the best it can be, please let me know.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and if you've read this whole note, thank you for caring enough to continue.


	10. The Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank confronts an old enemy, begins to get a lock on his tail, and is just a grumpy old man.  
> Title comes from Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain."  
> WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AHEAD

He was getting close.

There was a missing component to Cavella’s operation, which Frank suspected had to do with the tail that David hadn’t quite gotten nailed with facial recognition yet, but he was getting close.  In spite of the mafioso culture that Cavella had been bred into, in spite of all the tricks he learned from that fat pedophile of an aunt, he was sloppy.  Emotional.  Made rash decisions in the spur of the moment, based on impulse rather than logic.  And it was his sloppiness that made him dangerous.

Well, dangerous but doomed regardless.

Dave is waiting for him at the apartment, playing a round of Smash Bros on his handheld Nintendo with his three-screen desktop open around him like a vanity.  When he hears the tell-tale metallic clang of Frank’s entire body weight (plus at least two military-caliber machine guns) on his fire escape, he throws up the window, backing up to let the taller man in.

“You’re smelling particularly sweet this evening,” he remarks, kicking back into his swivel chair.  “You been baking?”  Frank rolls his eyes.

“Will ya open the damn images?”  Dave holds his hands up in surrender.

“Fine, fine.  Touchy tonight, I see.”  In a few clicks there are a multitude of images, pictures of the scarred man splayed across each of David’s screens, most all of them with the sunglasses clouding the upper half of his face, except one enlarged one on the rightmost monitor.  “We have got a lock, old friend.”  The eyes, he sees, are cold, hollow, the sort of gray of a mile-long cave with the same empty echo.  “William Rawlins.  Former CIA, jailed for leaking top-secret information to Russian extremists...broken out about six months ago.  That’s funny, he’s actually higher up on the Most Wanted list than you are.”  Frank snorts, rolling his eyes.  “And how we managed to find him before the FBI is beyond me, but I’m assuming he’s using aliases, cash, all the good CIA tricks he learned before he got booted.”

“Any idea on any of those aliases?”

“If I did, you’d be in his apartment, standing over his cold and broken body already.”

Frank smirks.

“Send that shot to Jones for me?”

“You got it.”  Frank turns away as Micro taps at his keyboard, props open the living room window.  “Hey, Frank?”  He grunts, loading his bag over the sill and back onto the fire escape.

“Careful out there tonight?  That Page girl...you know, I don’t know her from the next leggy blonde in a pencil skirt, but if I thought I could tell you to be careful for her...you know.”  Frank means to ignore him, but the muscles in his neck won’t let him leave without a trailing nod.

And then it’s back to business.  Cracking the same skulls that Fisk had out roaming the streets a year and a half ago, killing weeds before they have the chance to sprout up.  He heeds Micro’s request by mostly keeping up to the rooftops, a filthy pit hollowing out the bottom of his stomach.

He knows he can’t give her normal.  He sure as hell couldn’t do it for Maria or the kids.  He doesn’t know how to walk a mile without blood on his hands or a body in the gutter.  But he also knows that she wouldn’t want it any other way.  It was too late for normal, for either of them.

He tracks down the butcher’s son that night.  The one who’d been harassing the young girl at the meat shop and ended up with pulp for a right hand.  The girl ended up on a meat hook.  He atones for some semblance of guilt by creeping past the kid’s apartment, and then the office at the butcher’s.  The kid’s asleep at his desk, head propped up by his left hand and his hook.  Frank shuffles the lock open and leaves his gun next to the office door.

It’s only been a year since Frank saw him, but arrogance lines this kid’s lips just like it did his old man’s, overconfident with the smell of laborers’ indignity and his screwy perception of his own power wafting through the air.  He’s not much more than twenty-five.  Frank slaps the kid awake.

“H--wh--” he gasps, eyes darting about in a frenzy.  Horace, was his name.  William Horace, Jr.  When his eyes meet Frank’s they widen in fear, and his mouth drops open as if to ready itself for a scream, but Frank presses a finger to his own lips.

“Shh-sh-sh.”  His hand moves to Horace’s throat, then to his collar.  He grabs the kid, ushers him out of his office and into the meat locker.  “You remember me?”  Horace nods, the sweat beginning to collect at his forehead.  “You remember that girl?  Remember what you did to her?”  The kid hesitates, but this brings forth the tiniest of nods.  “You remember pushing the hook through her?  Her bones cracking because you just couldn’t keep it _in your pants_?”

“P-please, Mr. Castle, I--”

“Shhhh.  Come on, now.”  Frank chuckles, shaking his head.  “None of that begging.  Ain’t worth your time.”

“But Mr. Castle, I swear, I--”

He should’ve listened.

Frank grabs him by the ears, abruptly, and pushes him backwards until the back of Horace’s skull makes contact with one of the meat hooks.  Then his fingers find where the hook meets its chain and edge the point of it deep into the soft spot at the base of his skull, until Horace is shrieking, louder, Frank is sure, than the woman he’d pressed the hook into all that time ago.  As the metal sinks deeper, Horace’s gurgling screams begin to fade, replaced by the sickly sound of liquid dripping to the floor.  Frank finally lets go.

He finds his burner in the pocket on his left thigh and begins typing out a text.

_Micro send you the photo?  Name’s William Rawlins.  Wanted by FBI._

He doubts Jones is awake at this hour, as the bars have been closed a while now, but she pings him back almost immediately.

_CIA reject?  Yikes._

He snorts, then proceeds up the stairwell to the rooftop of the meat shop.  It conveniently overlooks a fairly popular street corner of the Kitchen, frequented by guys who get a little trigger-happy when the girls jumping in their cars get squeamish at what the scumbags are asking them to do.  He’s just cleared the last set of stairs and is beginning to shove the door open when something behind his ear starts to tingle.  He raises his shotgun, shifting into a predatory position, but the barrel flicks downward.

“Christ, Red, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I just want to talk, Frank, if you’ll give me a second…”  The Devil has his hands up, and apart from knocking Frank’s gun aside, he seems to have no intention of stopping him tonight.

“If you’re gettin’ ready to lecture me about what I’ve been doin’, you know you oughta save your breath.” Murdock exhales shakily, almost laughing, and puts his hands down.

“No, no, no lecturing tonight.  I, um, I actually heard you back on 187th, about the guy who’s been following you.  And I might have some information for you that could help you with him.”  Frank lets his gun go lax, almost feeling his own ears perk up.

“I’m listening.”

“I recently took on an appeal from a former CIA agent who’s currently in maximum strength lockup.  Said she’d been framed by...by your guy.  That she was married to him, before he left her for dead after she was raped by the terrorists he was smuggling heroin for.  They’d been in the agency together.”  Murdock pauses, as if he’s weighing the silence to see whether he actually wants to continue.  “I can try to speak to her on your behalf.  Our visits aren’t always monitored too closely...and I’m sure she wants his head just as much as you do.”

“Why you doin’ this, Red?” Frank cuts in, trying to get a read on the face behind the mask, the devil under the suit.  “You know when I find him, when I finish him, it’ll be on you, for telling me all this.”  Murdock sighs, a thing of exasperation and exhaustion, throwing his hands up.

“Frank, just this once, please, just this once...you let him get caught.  Alright?  I give you this, you let him see justice, and I’ll do my best to help his ex-wife get her justice, too.”  Red chews his lip, balling his hands into fists and then letting them go slack.  “You told me once that there was no coming back from your side.  I’m asking you, just once, to come to mine.”

He extends his hand between them, in some absurd attempt to imitate the regular world, as if this was some bullshit business compromise they’d come to terms with at a board meeting.  Granted, Frank wasn’t entirely sure that was how board meetings worked, seeing as the only real work he’d ever known had been tactical, putting bullets in skulls and making sure there were guns in the right places.  But still Red’s hand hangs in the balance between them, and Frank knows that should he refuse Murdock this straight up, or even make a promise he doesn’t intend to keep, he’ll become more of a pain in his ass than before.  It’s in his persistent, thoroughly irritating character.  And it’s not worth it, in the long run, to screw Red over.

“Fine,” Frank sighs, shaking Murdock’s hand at last.  “We do this one your way.   _This_ time.  But otherwise, you stay out of my shit.  This guy is part of something else, for me.”

“Fine,” Murdock repeats, forcing a stiff nod.  A pause falls between them--Frank wonders if Red’s going to bring up Karen, if he knows what they did the other night.  Since figuring out that Murdock and Red were the same person, and recognizing that he’d been able to hear Frank whisper from at least twenty yards away, Frank figures he’s got some kind of super sense to accommodate for the blindness, or even if the accident that caused the blindness caused a power reaction, like all those big supes they’d heard about on the news, the ones that nearly leveled New York a few years back.  Frank figures, if Red’s got the kind of hearing that comes from secret soldier serum or gamma rays, that he’d be able to hear what had happened at Karen’s if he were close enough nearby.

Would force Red to admit that he was still spying on her, too.

“You been around Page’s lately?” Frank decides to ask gruffly, breaking the long silence.

“No,” says Murdock, maybe a little too quickly.  “Not like this, at least.”  Another pause.  “We...went out tonight.  The three of us, plus Foggy’s girl.  I walked her back afterwards.”

“I heard her,” Frank realizes, recalling how earlier, in between the clanking of metal on metal when he’d been preparing his guns for the night, she’d taken a little longer than usual to open the door.  “Didn’t know she was talking to you.  Just figured she was drunk.”

“Oh, she was.”  Murdock grins, perhaps a little too fondly for Frank’s liking.  “She certainly was.  And I take it that’s why she didn’t notice the cookies you made her.”

“Christ, Murdock.”  Something like anger spikes in Frank’s chest, and he turns away, finally, having taken too goddamn long and wasted too much goddamn time up here on the rooftop with him again, when he could have been cleaning up the streets.  He’s reaching for the handle of the door when Red calls out after him.

“I never knew she liked gingerbread.”  Frank stops, sighs, so ready to correct the little smartass, and suddenly realizes just how childish they sound.  Teasing each other and poking at each other’s wounds over her.  It’s almost _normal_ , almost like he can puff up his chest to Murdock and tell him to stay away from his girl.  But he’s been over this before.  She’s not his girl.

They can’t have normal.  He can’t _give_ her normal.

“She likes ginger snaps, Red.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you think. Next chapter will have more real action, I promise! We'll be getting into the confrontation(s) soon, and I'll be developing both Karen and Frank through a little more backstory.


	11. You're the Reason I Believe in Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Karen stands up for herself, and things happen with Frank.  
> (I'm taking artistic liberties with medical science in this chapter, but I did my research and I'm only bending the rules a bit. Sorry if the inaccuracy is distracting :( )  
> Title comes from "You're the Reason I Believe in Ghosts" by Starry Cat.  
> WARNING: GRAPHIC IMAGES AHEAD

A familiar itch crawls up Karen’s arms the next morning and her hands shake noticeably when she picks up the plate on her bedside table.  She’s sat there staring at them for most of twenty minutes since waking up, the delicious smell lingering in her nose from the night before.  She wants to hate him.  She wants to punch him.  

She also wants to kiss the ever-living _shit_ out of him.

Her phone jumps to life in her bed, ringing almost absurdly loudly, and she jumps with it, nearly tossing the ginger snaps.  Mitch’s name flashes across the screen, along with a picture of him she’d snapped at a meeting he’d called and promptly fallen asleep at.

“Mitch?  Everything good?”

“Karen.  I know I usually let you have free rein on your editorials, but I just got a tip on a case I’d like you to cover.  Can you get down to The Bulletin by ten?”

“Yeah, of course.  Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.  We’ll see you in a bit.”

_We?_

Granted, it was probably her own fault for not being social enough at the office when she’d been included in all the Friday morning breakfast sandwich orders, but a tip on a story from Ellison himself seemed like more of a one-on-one kind of interaction.

But of course, as per usual, Karen was most likely overthinking things.  Just like the heaping plate of ginger snaps on her bedside table, which her roommate/one night stand/wanted fugitive had remembered that she liked, after all this time, when she’d mentioned them once in a hospital room where he’d been chained to the bed and she’d shoved a picture of his family in his face like a goddamn monster.

 _Deep breaths, Karen.  Taking it slow_.

She’s itchy and restless from her shoulders down to her fingertips, which is particularly unsettling because she hasn’t felt the jitters like this in years.

The shower doesn’t help.  After using all the hot water her skin can take without going raw, she dresses quickly, foregoing coffee and swinging her purse onto her shoulder as she heads for the door.    
But the kitchen still smells like ginger snaps, and the plate is still sitting on her bedside table.  An internal tug-of-war flares briefly in her head, before she grabs the plate and brings it with her out the door.

She leaves them on the communal table near the water cooler, where most people leave doughnuts on special occasions, or at least on Fridays, and at which Karen has no experience socializing with most of her coworkers.  She glances to see if anyone’s around for her to muster up a smile at, then proceeds to her office with her head down.  Mitch is there waiting for her, leaning against her desk on his hands, along with Candace Silverman, a pretty black girl who does both photography and the occasional local schools piece.

“Mitch, Candace.  Everything okay?”  Ellison draws in a deep breath, and Candace is gazing at her feet, chewing on her lip.

“Yeah, you wanna shut the door real quick?”

She acquiesces, turning back to him with her brows furrowed.

“What’s the matter, Mitch?”

“Karen, I know I give you a lot of leeway around here, to--to pick up stories at your own discretion.  And don’t get me wrong, you’ve done a _fantastic_ job, even being so new to all this.”  He opens an arm, gesturing to Ben’s old office and the newspaper clippings lining his walls.  “And I have a feeling that, you know, you being you, you’d might want to tackle the Fisk story.”  He studies her a moment, and Karen can almost feel the iciness in her veins glowing blue under his gaze.  “And God knows how you handle all the Punisher stories and are still safe…”  Again he’s looking at her, as if into her soul, prompting her to vomit up the truth about her and Frank.  “...but I was thinking, for safety’s sake with Fisk appealing for an early release and all the grubby hands he’s got in this city...well, I was thinking Candace take the story, and that she consult with you.”

Candace makes eye contact with her now, her gentle stare both sheepish and curious.

“I know that the crime pieces are really important to you, Karen, and I totally respect it.  I wouldn’t print anything you didn’t approve in this one.”

She’s not sure what to say.  What to think, even.

On the one hand, she’s almost insulted.  Ellison’s insinuations about her and Frank, his immediate assumption that, for whatever reason, she can’t take this case, that suddenly the job is too dangerous for her.  She’s literally dodged bullets, fired at her by her roommate/not fuck-buddy/guy who makes her ginger snaps in the middle of the night.  And now, after having dealt with Fisk as a secretary to the law firm that put him away almost two years ago, she’s _suddenly_ rendered incompetent?

On the other hand, she _is_ scared shitless.  In spite of what she might tell Matt or Foggy or even Marci, the article she started about the appeal has sat on her desktop with only Fisk’s name at the top in bold letters.  She is determined to fight back, in every way she can, but she also can’t forget the feeling of bile hot and stinging in her throat the morning she found out.

“I’m sorry, but I _have_ to write this article.”  She meets their eyes with that defiance she always sees in Frank’s, that sheer knowledge that she _must_ be right with this.  “Candace, you’re more than welcome to work with me on it, but I can’t just consult.  I need to be in the field on this, doing every bit that I can.”  She smiles weakly, this time at Ellison.  “And it’s not like I don’t already have Fisk’s bull’s-eye on my back, so what have I really got to lose?”  Ellison draws in another deep breath, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Candace...will you give us a minute?”

She nods ever so politely--oh, Candace, the picture of graciousness--and steps outside, going back to her desk and shutting the door behind her.  Ellison moves around her desk, turning towards the clippings on the wall that Ben Urich had put up in the years past.

“You know, as much of a pain in my ass that Ben was, he was a great goddamn writer.”  He shakes his head, and Karen can hear the hints of a smile in his voice.  “Smart, witty, headstrong.  Liked to push my buttons and the boundaries in every way he could.”  He turns around, and her suspicions that Mitch Ellison is capable of smiling are finally confirmed.  “Reminds me of somebody else I know.”  Karen smiles back, weakly but distinctly.

“He taught me so much.  You know, in the little time we got.”

“It shows.”  He grips her desk, breaking their gaze and studying her belongings: her laptop, the lone picture with Kevin smiling raucously and pointing at something out of frame, her to-do notepad with things scribbled out left and right, her pencil holder shaped like the head of Frankenstein’s monster.  The box of tissues in the corner.  “Karen, I can’t lose you over a story like I did with Ben.  You have...God, you’ve got so much ahead of you.”

There’s sincere regret in his voice.  The way it cracks over Ben’s name.  This is as emotional as she’s ever seen Mitch get.

“Mitch…”  She sighs.  She needs this.  But he needs to know she’s safe.  “I have been incredibly lucky.  With my history...you know, it was risky coming to the city in the first place.  I’ve seen temptation, and God knows I’ve been fortunate enough to kick myself in the pants and keep myself in line on that.”  

She remembers the file Ben had composed on her, the one that Mitch referenced so long ago.   _Ben didn’t care, and neither do I._  She remembers the itch in her arms this morning that she hadn’t felt since college.  She remembers the bottles of pills, the ones she sold and the ones she bought.  She remembers the cold metal of the police car pressed to her face.

“But at the same time, I’ve been lucky with _all_ the shit that happens here, too.  I’ve had more attempts on my life in New York City than...you know than an average person has _ever_ .”  She weighs what she’s about to say.  If it’s worth it.  “And I’ve been protected by two of New York’s most loved-and-hated vigilantes.  If Fisk _does_ come back on the rise...I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.  But I _have_ to take his story.  Come what may.”  She fingers the .380 in her purse.  Her first and last resort.  And if she got the opportunity to press it into Wilson Fisk’s skull and pull the trigger...she can’t say she wouldn’t do it.

Mitch sighs again.  Pushes his glasses up his nose again.

“I can’t stop you, can I?”  She smiles.

“It’s doubtful.”

“You’d be making him so proud.  You know that?”  A faint flush rises to her cheeks and she can’t help but look down.

“Ben set the stage for me.  It’s the least I can do.”

“I wasn’t talking about Ben.”  When she looks up, his gaze is directed at the picture frame, the shot of Kevin on her desk.  It’s only now that she notices she’s getting misty-eyed, and tries to sniffle the tears away.

“Thanks, Mitch.”  He comes out from behind her desk, pats her gently on the shoulder.

“C’mon, Page.  Let’s get back to work.”

_______________________________________________

Interestingly enough, the ginger snaps are a hit at work, and every ten to fifteen minutes someone pops their head into her office to thank her for bringing them in.  She doesn’t get around to trying one until she’s about to leave, and _God_ , they’re the best ginger snaps she’s had in a long time.  They take her back to the broom cupboard, drowning herself in crumbs and drowning out the vague sounds of her parents’ rising voices, things being tossed off counters.  And for the second time today she has to hide her tears, tuck them into her sleeve while she rushes out the door fumbling through her purse for her wallet so she can pay for the subway.  It’s only two p.m. but she’s fucking _exhausted_ , if she’s being honest, and she wants nothing more than to lie in bed in her underwear for the rest of the day and maybe watch Real Housewives.

But when she paces up the hallway toward her apartment, something feels off.  Maybe the air is tighter and tenser than usual; maybe she’s delusional.  The open door to her apartment tells her otherwise.   _No Real Housewives, I guess_.

Her hand shoots into her purse for her gun, and she’s holding it carefully at eye level as she pushes the door open.

A trail of blood spatters from the entryway toward her bathroom and her stomach drops into her toes.  She treads as quietly as she can to the bathroom, pushing back the door with one hand, the gun still mostly steady in the other.

Frank sits on the floor against the bathtub, the first aid kit atop the toilet and a roll of gauze in his hand.  His shirt is rolled up to his chest but he leaks out of a deep gash in his side.  His eyes are shut, his face screwed up in a frown, and Karen’s heart _stops_.

“Frank?  Shit, Frank.”  She falls to her knees beside him, ripping a dressing out of the first aid kit and pressing it hard against his side, the blood seeping through and staining her hands.  He flutters into consciousness, his eyes opening slowly, and he attempts to shift himself into a more upright position.

“Ma’am,” he grunts, wincing at her pressure on his wound.

“Shhh,” she urges him, her hands shaking as she reaches for another dressing, sinking it into his skin.  “It’s okay--it’s okay, I can--fuck, it’s okay.”  She’s lying through her teeth, but they’re the only words she can fathom right now, the only thing she can imagine saying to him.  He’s shuddering under her hands, the life trickling out of him and onto her skin.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, but the words weigh differently in his voice.  His throat is tight, and his eyes sink into hers, big and sad and remorseful.  “Hey.  I’m sorry.”  His hand moves to her face, smearing her cheek and her hair with his blood, but it’s so warm on her, so warm and so much like a home she’s never known.

“Don’t do that,” she pleads, the seams of her chest ripping apart, slow and agonizing.  “You don’t get to say your goodbyes to me today.”  Her cheeks are wet now, and she can’t tell if it’s his blood or her tears and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t _care_.

“I ain’t worth a goodbye, ma’am.”

“Claire,” she hisses, and then one hand keeps her last dressing on his side, the other rummaging through her purse for her phone, and while he stares at her like she’s the last goddamn thing on Earth, she’s crying into the phone, begging and blubbering, and Claire promises to be over soon, doesn’t ask any questions and Karen can’t even thank her, the words caught impossibly in her throat.

“She’s coming, Frank.  She’s going to fix you.”

He’s silent.  Just goes on watching her with his ragged eyes and his ragged breaths, his hand in her hair and his thumb trailing across her cheek, the red mixing with her tears as he tries, _he_ tries, to calm her down.

Minutes feel like hours, and she can’t bring herself to do much more than sit there with him, holding his body together, while she waits for Claire to arrive.  He feels like little more than a shadow under her grip, the life in him ebbing and flowing between her fingers.  And she’s talking the whole time, her voice soft and rapid and groggy under her sobs, saying everything she can and nothing at all, telling him to wait, telling him everything will be alright.

And he doesn’t need to tell her it’s bullshit because she knows.

Finally, _finally_   Saint Claire Temple drops beside Karen, her gloved hands the hands of God as they dig into Frank’s wound, her voice garbled through a broken radio as she asks him if it was a blade or a bullet, and Karen’s grip on him fades, her hands shaking as she draws them away from him.  She wobbles to her feet, Frank’s eyes following her out the door.

 _Shock_.

She makes it to the couch, slipping the neatly folded blanket off it before the rest of her body comes crashing down on the floor.  Her hand collides with her shoulder as she pulls the blanket over herself, and the skin is cold and clammy.  She knows she’s shaking, can feel her throat and stomach tightening, but she clamps her eyes shut, willing her guts to stay in place and willing the room to stop spinning.

And the room is spinning, faster, the Earth tumbling under her ribcage, the sky outside her window turning dark and cold and there’s that sound in the distance that keeps on repeating through the window, soft and tinny:

_Karen._

_Karen._

_Karen._

“Karen!”  The sound is Claire Temple, emerging from the bathroom and pulling Frank with her, almost dragging him as she tries and fails to shoulder his whole weight.  “Karen, I know you’re struggling too, but I need your help.”

She fumbles to her feet, the blanket hanging off her back and then slipping away, and she’s cold again but nothing is more important than the man who’s been bleeding out on her floor for God knows how long.  She’s still shaking when she squats under Frank’s opposite arm, careful as she can be not to press too much of her own body against the bandage on his side.

They wobble to the couch, letting him fall in a heap on the cushions, and Claire finds the blanket, tossing it over him.  She considers Karen, then dashes to the bedroom and collects a pile of blankets for her as well.

“You need to lie down, too,” Claire says.  She’s soothing, she’s calm, she’s unbelievably frustrated with Karen, and Karen can see it, but she’s understanding, too.

“C-Claire,” she stammers out, sliding down into a sitting position against the couch, her head resting against Frank’s limp hand.  “Thank you,” she whispers, and the world turns colder by the minute.

“Put your feet up.”  Her tone is soft but commanding, and she does the same with Frank, tucking pillows under his boots.  She turns away for a moment, and then, between blinks, she’s teleported around the room, her back to Karen, and then an inch from Frank, and then an inch from her.  Karen is vaguely aware of a stinging in her arm, and looks down bewildered to find an IV in her vein  “Karen, I’m going to give you a shot of epinephrine.  It’ll get your blood pressure back up to normal.”

“Frank--” she begins to protest, but Claire pushes the needle into her leg.  A rush of life courses through her veins again and she breathes in deeply.

“I did his already,” Claire explains, wrapping a blood pressure monitor around Karen’s upper arm and pumping air into it, glancing down at the numbers.   “I need you to stay with me, Karen.  Do you know your blood type?”

“Wh-what?”

“He’s lost a good amount of blood and I’ve got your blood pressure up to 118/72.  I’m going to need to give him a transfusion as soon as possible, so what is your blood type?”

“Ah--A positive, I think.”  She dares a glance at Frank--he's ghostly pale, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead.  Her stomach turns inside out.  “Frank, wake up.  We need to know your blood type.”  Her hand quivers as she reaches for his shoulder, but his eyes drift open before she has a chance to touch him.  He draws a ragged breath, his gaze flickering from Karen to Claire and back.

“AB,” he manages, the rise and fall of his chest too slow, too labored for Karen’s liking.  “Positive.”

The way that she turns to Claire feels almost accusatory, but when the nurse nods, her lips caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace, relief blossoms in Karen’s chest.

“We can work with this.”

It’s a blur.  She doesn’t miss Claire’s explanations of how dangerous this is, how blood most typically has to be tested before transfusions, how tricky patients can be about their qualifications to donate or to receive.

But she doesn’t need to hear how difficult this is.  It’s written all over Frank’s face.

He’s halfway to giving up, his eyes lethargic as Claire sucks the life out of Karen and prepares to pump it into him.  And as lightheaded as Karen gets, as much as the edges of her vision begin to muddle and fade, she doesn’t take her eyes off him.

She doesn’t give up.

 _They_ don’t give up.

The hand that isn’t pinned down under Claire’s with a needle at the crook of her elbow sneaks up the couch, twisting his fingers between it.  She squeezes, gently now because that’s all she can muster, and seeks the pulse under his skin.

It’s slow.  Apathetic, the way he looks right now.

But he’s looking through her, and suddenly his eyes aren’t nearly as lethargic as they were before.  He’s seeing her now, understanding.

“We don’t give up,” she whispers, and then his knuckles are at her lips.  She kisses the index.  The middle.  The ring.

She wonders if he wants to pull away from her, if he could.  But those eyes are the same ones that she saw at the hospital, and she knows he’s scared and confused and hurt, just the way he was before.

_You stay, please._

“Ma’am,” he croaks, and his lips are dry and chapped and swollen with bruises.  His fingers tighten around hers, just so lightly that she could pretend they didn’t.  But she squeezes back.

Saint Claire Temple does not ask questions.  She gives incredulous looks with eyebrows halfway up her forehead and hands splayed out in front of her, but she does not ask why a mass murderer began to bleed out on Karen’s bathroom floor.  She does not ask why said mass murderer allows his hands to be kissed by the woman who gives him her blood, nor why that woman kissed them in the first place.  Saint Claire Temple bullies said woman and said mass murderer into piping hot bowls of chicken soup and tall glasses of orange juice.  Saint Claire Temple makes herself at home in Karen’s apartment by mopping up the bloodstains, by locking the door, by helping herself to some of Karen’s leftover Thai food.  And then she makes herself at home by promising (or threatening?) to stay overnight, to monitor the two of them and make sure that they don’t go into shock again.

“I _am_ taking the bed though.  And we’re talking about what the hell it is you two are doing in the morning.”

But Saint Claire Temple does not ask any questions right now, and for that Karen Page is thankful.

She can put off thinking about what they’re going to do in the morning, and what they’re going to do in a few days when Frank meets Cavella.  She can put off thinking about the tail that Frank mumbles to her about, and about what exactly happened to him to put him in this state.

Because right now, her ass is pressed to the cold hard floor and Frank Castle’s warm hand is pressed between her hand and her cheek, and _he is safe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'm surprised this chapter came out the way it did--I was toying with a few different directions, but this way I feel like questions are beginning to be answered and raised at the same time. Plus I needed some more emotional bonding with Frank and Karen and who doesn't love a little Claire Temple?  
> Also, please excuse or advise on the medical stuff. I have been Googling and researching left and right for this chapter, but for some of the gaps I took my own route I guess.  
> Let me know what you think!


	12. Organs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we catch a glimpse of the relationship between notorious mobster Nicky Cavella and disgraced ex-CIA William Rawlins, and Claire offers Karen more sage advice.  
> Title comes from "Organs" by Of Monsters and Men.  
> WARNING: GRAPHIC IMAGES AND POTENTIALLY ABUSIVE BEHAVIOR AHEAD

Sunlight peeks through the cheap curtains Will’s picked up, and Nicky awakens as grumbly as usual, the blanket draped over half his ass as he buries his face back into the pillow.  Will is standing in the bathroom putting more bandage over the stitches, holding back a wince in the mirror as he pours vodka over the broken skin just under his ribs.  His wound goes toe-to-toe with Castle’s, just like they had last night.

_ “You think you’re the good guy, don’t you, Castle?”  He spits a chunk of blood onto the gravel of the rooftop, the ghost of Frank’s fist stinging in his jaw.  “You think you’re playing for the right team, think you’re whacking off all the right guys.  But, you know, you know you’re just like me.”  He grins, and Frank lunges, his left hand all balled up catching Will square in the gut, and Will’s doubled over a second, but the grin doesn’t fade, even as Frank’s blows land on him again and again.  He returns the blows that he can, and then his blade is in his hand and out of his boot, and then it’s dug deep into Frank’s middle.  Castle lets out a sputtering grunt, and then Will’s hurting, too.  A sharp pain in nearly the same place.  Shallower than Castle’s but sharp nonetheless.  Will chances a look downward at the handle of a screwdriver and probably the next two or three inches of the metal that Castle would push deeper into him if he could.  And he turns the knife, relishing the blood that seeps between his fingers out of the Punisher. _

_ “WILL!” Nicky’s screaming, and he’s too much of a goddamn coward to come close because he won’t risk meeting Frank in the dark of night, standing on the edge of the adjacent rooftop, his hands cupped around his mouth and his tie flapping in the wind like a fucking Boy Scout. _

_ “You’re dead,” Frank’s growling, shuddering as he forces his eyes upwards to meet Will’s gaze.  “I’m going to make you scream, Rawlins, piece of shit.”  Will yanks out the knife but shoves a finger into the wound, smirking while Castle yelps like a dog. _

_ “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Frankie.”  He pushes off against him, letting the Punisher stumble backwards, and pulls the screwdriver out of himself, cupping his gash tenderly before he turns around and gets a running start before dashing to the next rooftop.  Nicky’s waiting for him with open arms. _

He hasn’t slept since then, by the way.  He’s aware of Nicky’s ridiculous demand for Castle to meet in public in just four more days.  And he’s both a little irritated about having to now bend over a sniper rifle with a gash in him but also a little relieved that Castle will be in shoddy shape too.  Small condolences, but in the end it makes the job easier.

“Back to bed,” Nicky groans, fruitlessly kicking the covers that Will’s just vacated.  Will snorts, making some effort to bend forward and grab the gauze out of the medicine cabinet.  Nick’s always been needy--chalk it up to the shitty childhood, he supposes--but in recent days, especially now with the thrilling and frightening chase of Frank Castle on his tail, the clinginess is bordering irritating.

But then, chances are with the whole Castle thing that Nick’s not going to make it out.  So Will gets it, he really does.  And it’s a damn shame, of course, because beyond being an above-average lay, Nicky’s actually a half-decent kid.  Emotional and with the guts of a fried fish, but sure, an alright kid.  And maybe that tape of him and the Gazzera girl pissing on Castle’s family  _ did _ cross a line (shit, Will’s killed people for way less...and Castle, too, come to think of it), but Castle  _ has _ offed a lot of the family that Nicky did like.  Not to mention a lot of the families that Nicky does business with.

So at least Nicky’s gonna die for a noble cause.  A damn sight nicer than what Will’ll go out for someday, disgraced former-CIA and all.  Selling out his wife to the Afghanis he’d done business with, framing her for said business, laughing while she got fucked sideways to Sunday by said Afghanis.  Okay, he’s anything but noble.  So sue him.  But at least he knows what kind of monster he is.

See, Castle,  _ he _ thinks he’s noble.  The whole bullshit vendetta against crime and criminals because of the sting that took out his picket fence wife and picket fence kids.  Castle’s family dies and he goes on a fucking rampage, picking off the Cartel, the Kitchen Irish, and the Dogs of Hell and missing the  _ biggest  _ component of the whole operation.  Fucking Blacksmith.  Gets himself caught up by another freak in a costume, carted off to prison, and then, when he breaks out, tosses himself right back into the mix.

Nobility is idiocy, Will decides, on every side.

“Baby,” Nicky’s saying, and he’s managed to pull his bitch ass out of bed, stringing his skinny little arms around Will’s waist and tucking his cheek against Will’s shoulder.  He’s growing hard again, his pretty little cock nudging Will’s ass, his hands sliding over Will’s muscles and carefully avoiding the bandage over his gash, across his taut stomach and down between his hips.

“Easy there, champ.”  Will chuckles, lacing his fingers through Nicky’s and smearing his own blood between their knuckles.  “You need to rest up.  Get as much strength as you can before your big day.”

“Not meeting Castle till  _ Thursday _ , baby,” Nick whines, standing on his tiptoes to let his tongue linger down Will’s earlobe.  A shiver of pleasure runs down his spine, and he turns around, pinning Nick to the bathroom door by the throat, his thumb running across Nick’s pitiful Adam’s apple.

“That and  _ I’m _ doing most of the work.  After the bullshit your boy put me through last night, I think I deserve a little something extra…”  He stops Nick’s eyebrow-waggling with a tighter grip, watching the flush rise into his lover’s cheeks.  “On your knees, pretty boy.  And look at me while I throat-fuck you.”

He wouldn’t go so far as to call it bliss, the way Nicky sucks him off.  But he’s feeling a damn sight nicer than Castle must be right now, and knowing  _ that _ is what pushes him to the edge.

_______________________________________________

“Okay,” says Claire, her hands pressed to her hips in Karen’s bedroom.  Frank is asleep on the couch still, the gentle sound of his snoring wafting through the door.  “You wanna tell me what’s going on here?  Cutting as much shit as possible.”

Karen laughs humorlessly, shaking her head and running her hand through her hair.

“To be honest?  I’m...still trying to figure that out myself.”  She fiddles with a string at the hem of her shirt, the fuzziness still ringing in her head after the longest night of her life.  “We...he stays here.  He’s settling a score, and...and like you saw yesterday, he needs me.”

“He’s the complicated friend.”  It’s not a question.  The frown set deep in Claire’s eyebrows softens, and then, for some reason that Karen cannot for the life of her begin to fathom, a smile slowly replaces it.  “Sorry, sorry, give me a minute...you and him.  You and the Punisher.”  The smile widens, brightening into a full-on grin.  “You had sex.  God, that makes our whole conversation the other day that much more interesting.  Holy shit.”

“You’re supposed to be pissed off at me for omitting the fact that I’m harboring a wanted fugitive-slash-mass murderer and I just had you bring him back from the throes of death.”

“I’d like to be, believe you me.”  Claire sighs, trailing her fingers over the jewelry display on Karen’s dresser, the chains of her necklaces sliding back and forth over the wood.  “As pissed off as I should be, I’ve harbored wanted fugitives in my time.  No mass murderers yet, but the day is early.”  Half a smirk rolls across her lips.  “And while mass murder is generally against my personal credo, I know this guy takes out only the worst of the worst.  And...you trust him.  Right?”

“I do.”

“So I’m not condoning the whole murder part, but...you know, you trust him, and my mom’s been telling me that...that this is what I’m meant to do.  Take care of guys like him.”

“Vigilantes.”

“Yes.”

The tides shift now, and Karen is the one frowning, steadying herself on the dresser.  Matt? She wants to ask.  A swell of anger, of betrayal, rises in her belly, and something resembling envy makes her free hand clench into a fist.  She wonders how long Claire has known, if she does.  She wonders if it was a chance meeting, or if Matt volunteered it to her, the way he did to Karen too little too late.

“When did you start?  Taking care of guys like him?”  Claire frowns back, cocking her head to the side.

“Did you say you were a legal secretary before you were a journalist?  Who with?”

Karen smiles.

“You know the answer to that.”

“Nelson and Murdock, huh?”  Claire shakes her head again, pasting on a sardonic smile of her own.  “As big as New York City is, it is too damn small for me to throw a rock and not hit another vigilante.”

“We should start a support group.  Vigilantes Anonymous.”

“Don’t act like I haven’t thought about it.”

Karen chuckles now, rubbing her elbow almost self-consciously.  Claire is a bit like looking into a mirror, and with the smile the night nurse wears, the bloom of pink that happily flushes her cheeks, Karen wonders if she’s not in love.

“So...is this a permanent thing?” Claire asks, nodding at the door and the soft snores coming from behind it.  Karen’s heart sinks into her chest, floating in something like an ache.  She doesn’t know of any words that can really cover how she feels about their arrangement.

“I’m really learning not to expect anything.  Didn’t expect to find him bruised up on my couch two months ago, definitely didn’t expect to find him bleeding out on my bathroom floor yesterday.”   _ Didn’t expect his body on mine and my name on his lips.  Didn’t expect him to remember what my favorite cookie was growing up.  Didn’t expect him to have sunk his fingers so deeply into my chest and refused to let go. _

Claire moves to stand beside her, leaning on her hands against the dresser that Karen’s forgotten she’s got a death grip on.  She lets her whitened knuckles go slack, the feeling returning to her wrist.

“Please tell me you’re not doing that ridiculous thing where you don’t allow yourself to feel anything because of what might happen.”

“Claire, he is a mass murderer who is still grieving his family, still desperately in love with his wife,  _ and _ he’s being hunted by mobsters, Cartel members, and the police, once they admit to themselves again he’s alive.  I don’t need to worry about what might happen because I know what  _ will _ happen.”  The road with Frank does not end in overpriced wedding gowns, or chubby-fisted babies with his eyes and her nose, or the feeling of his wrinkled hand atop hers as they rock the night away in their porch chairs.  The road with Frank ends only in blood, the way it started.

Claire inhales sharply, the look on her face suddenly turning sour, and exhales just the same, shaking her head.

“Luke Cage was a wanted fugitive still desperately in love with his wife, grieving the loss of the only family he’d ever known, being hunted by mobsters and the police,  _ and _ his semi-superpowered half-brother.  But denying it?  Denying it will only make you two more emotionally constipated than you already are.”  She retrieves her purse from the armchair facing Karen’s bed, and pulls a thick stack of envelopes from it, the seals ripped carelessly but the letters inside completely intact, Karen’s certain, the ink dripping with adoration and pain and honesty.

_ You never lie to me _ .

“Even if the time you have with him is limited, for whatever reason...shouldn’t you be focused on making that the best time possible?”

“He can’t afford distractions.  He can’t afford...anyone coming close.”  She looks at her feet, and before she can recognize the tears in her eyes, they’re already spilling onto the floor.  “The people he pisses off...he pisses them off  _ bad _ .”  She swipes at her cheeks, sniffling in her poor attempt to put away her feelings.  “I’m already too much in the crosshairs, but you know what?  I don’t regret it for a goddamn second.”  Warmth lights Claire’s eyes again, and she sets down the letters on the dresser, reaching for Karen’s arm.

“You’ll regret not letting yourself feel this.  Trust me.”

After a brief moment’s consideration, gazing into the snoring bedroom door as if the sound of Frank asleep holds the answers to all life’s questions, Karen nods, looking down at her feet now.

“You’re right.  I know.  I know.”  She inhales deeply, and pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes, and then lets the breath out again.

“I’ve gotta go, but...you know, just don’t let him move too much.  You know, lots of electrolytes for the deranged lunatic, and for him, strict bedrest and little meals.”  Claire grins, shifting her bag onto her shoulder.  “I restocked your first aid kit, by the way.  You should probably change his dressings every couple of hours.  He had some nice gashes that I stapled up, but the pain in the ass will be the sucker under his ribs.”

“Got it,” Karen nods.  She brushes her fingers along the top of her dresser, watching on as Claire picks up and leaves, saunters out the door with barely a sidelong glance at Frank, like he’s just another patient.  But, from what it sounds like, maybe he is.

_ You stay, please _ .

She trails out after Claire, leaning on the entertainment center while she watches him sleep.  It’s almost easy to forget what kind of a man he is when he’s like this--the way his hand tucks between his face and the cushions, the way he frowns every so often and makes a little snorting noise like an irate horse.  It’s almost like, when he’s asleep, they can be...something else.

In spite of what that nagging little voice in the back of her head might believe, Karen doesn’t need to be reminded that this road leads anywhere but happiness.

And her whole life, hasn’t she dreamt of the person she can do...you know,  _ that _ kind of thing with?  Hasn’t she dreamt of tender kisses at the top of a ferris wheel?  Or a crisp Christmas morning where neither of them really want to wake up but to see the other’s face when they open their presents?  Hasn’t she dreamt of fighting over electric bills, not over who’s more liable to get themselves killed this week?  Of Sunday mornings spent in bed watching movies and ordering in?

Frank frowns, then groans, then blinks back into existence.  When his eyes catch on hers, a hint of a smile tugs at his lips.

“Hey.”  It’s so soft and so rough all at once, and Karen surrenders, taking a step closer and then kneeling down beside him.  He reaches up for her, tangling his fingers in her hair as they brush against her cheek.

“Hey.”  His thumb skims the side of her face, and his tongue flickers out just a moment to feel the crack in his lip.  “How do you feel, Frank?”

“Like hell,” he half-chuckles, before wincing.  “Hey...you okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, taking his hand from her face and pressing it to her lips again, planting the gentlest of kisses on his knuckles.  “Yeah, I’m okay.”  He smiles now, squeezing her hand and pulling it back to his lips.  “I, um...I’m glad.  I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me, too.”

He slides his hand into the crook of her neck, rubbing again, rubbing the fine baby hair at her nape, rubbing the side of her neck, the side of her jaw.  His eyes are dark and full when he looks at her, always gently questioning.

He doesn’t kiss her then.  And she doesn’t kiss him.  Instead, they sit together, just looking at each other, something like smiling, with her fingers pressed to his mouth and his pressed against the back of her head.  They sit there holding each other, unable to move away even a centimeter, because suddenly Karen has the whole world in her hands, more than she’s ever had with anyone she’s ever known.

And maybe it’s time to dream about something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I know this is a bit more of a filler chapter but I really really promise that the interesting stuff will come soon. I have the rest of the story pretty much plotted and outlined, so chances are I may not post again until I've completely finished. But I promise the story will pick up, hopefully in an interesting and satisfying vein.   
> ALSO now that The Punisher series has come out on Netflix, this fic is (and honestly, has been since Defenders came out) officially non-canon compliant. I haven't finished the first season of TPS yet so don't spoil it for me!  
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed the story so far.


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